


The Long Way Home

by bigdamnher0



Series: our venn diagrams are one circle [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Poisoning, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fuck-Around Bands, Jealousy, M/M, Mark's Love Language is Making Mixtapes and Writing Songs He'll Never Sing, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Racism, Multi, Mutual Pining, Polyamorous Negotiations, Uncomfortable Hookups, Yumark are FWB who become besties, established johnhyuck, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 40,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24363613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigdamnher0/pseuds/bigdamnher0
Summary: "I’m glad you’re cool with it.” Johnny scrubbed the back of his neck. “With uh, the whole Hyuck situation.”“Yep,” Mark finished lamely. “Cool.” Cool, cool,cool. Everything was cool. Mark was a big boy, he could hold it together, right? His best friend was in love, over-the-moon with it, his career a fast-growing cloud shadowing Mark’s pitiful patch of green—and Johnny deserved all of it. Even now, Johnny was a satellite gliding down a different orbit. Mark just wasn’t built to follow.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Suh Youngho | Johnny, Mark Lee & Nakamoto Yuta, Mark Lee/Nakamoto Yuta, Mark Lee/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Series: our venn diagrams are one circle [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926184
Comments: 244
Kudos: 665





	1. Chapter 1

### In The Beginning

“You know—like primordial soup,” Mark tried to explain, when Yuta eventually asked: _So when did it start? The whole Johnny thing_ , which was to say it was an impossible task, blasphemous even, like finding the first ever tide on the ocean, the fundamental ripple where all his troubles were born. How did you solve a problem like Johnny Suh?

Mark settled for a measly, “It’s complicated, alright?” which was to say, _I don’t know._ Shrugged. “It’s _Johnny_ —“ which was to say, _It's always been this way._

It was the truth; some things just _were_. Before the Internet knew _hot polaroid guy_ , there was Johnny Suh at 18—Mark had known him at 17, and then 16, and all the way back at 8 years old; there was only so much history his 5-year old brain could salvage—but there was something about 18 year-old Johnny that changed the game somehow. It was a revelation; witchcraft. One day Mark woke up and suddenly his best friend’s soft laugh barrelled into him like a train wreck, and there was a magnetism in everything Johnny touched: the faded flannel, the ripped jeans, the yellow skateboard he brought everywhere imbued inexplicably with the treacherous power of boy-sweat and a body-bumping hex, humming like a Led Zeppelin song. Johnny’s hair was longer then, the image of him so like the teenage boys trapped between glossy magazines his girl classmates snuck into class, with their smooth freckled chests and brooding eyes. But none of them moved him like Johnny did; none of them came close.

Gangly, pretty, _Johnny-hyung_ —a month finally retainer-free, he’d started smiling as if to make up for lost time. 18 year-old Johnny could say _fuck_ in such a classy way, not even Mark’s strict Christian upbringing rose to the surface to reprimand him.

Mark never stood a chance. That summer came out the gate swinging. As if the whole world had rearranged itself to fuck Mark over. Tapped him on the nose, opened Mark’s third eye, and said: _Are you suffering? Watch—this is nothing_.

“You’re so dramatic,” Yuta laughed. Which—fair. Mark hoarded those memories like prized possessions. If anything, it was the only thing left he was allowed to have these days.

It was too late now, anyway. Johnny was already slipping from his fingers. Mark had been ready to lose Johnny since he graduated from college—even longer, but something about this felt final somehow. If Mark shut his eyes right now he’d feel it—the slow aching shift, the way the weight of the world fell all wrong. Some things you can’t prepare for.

Mark came out of the soup with an ache so bad, and wasn’t that the real kicker, the thick, bastard soup of it all? How Johnny was still his, but not in the same way—who was to say he ever was to begin with?

### The Apocalypse Comes In Pink 

“How did you know Lee Haechan?” was penultimately the wrong question to ask in this industry, Mark quickly realized. “Who didn’t know Lee Haechan?” was the correct way to go about things. Only Haechan—or Donghyuck, how he wanted people outside film to call him since launching an evergreen career as a child actor for feel-good family movies—could perform a Houdini act like this. He possessed the uncanny ability to coexist between the world of afternoon soaps loved by the masses and the hip university bars that doubled as ramen joints along Mapo District. Effortlessly charming and a little out-of-reach; maybe that was why he and Johnny got along so well. They were both bad with moorings.

It was Mark who met him first, not Johnny; Mark found him chatting loudly with one of his regulars: a mild-mannered mid-forties auntie, like most of the people who came to watch a college junior play top 50 covers on his acoustic guitar each Friday night, in a Korean-American fusion joint called Cherry Bomb, of all things. “I like your voice,” Donghyuck said, looking out-of-place despite the simple leather jacket (Mark wasn’t fooled; it probably cost more than his monthly paycheck). “Though… I never thought I’d hear an acoustic version of Crazy In Love around here.”

Mark’s ears burned. “You’re Lee Haechan.”

“And you’re Mark Lee, right? Your name was on the poster outside,” he said, pursing his lips to point. Donghyuck had a full, pretty mouth, un-chapped, unlike Mark. “I came from a shoot across the street for this new coffee brand, but I missed a gig I was supposed to go to, so I came here instead. Heard there was live music . . . “ by then Mark had zoned out, still processing this glitch in the system that allowed Lee Haechan in his lame Friday night gig. Two minutes later, Donghyuck waved his tiny hand in front of his face. “Hey—you’re not thinking of robbing me, are you?”

“I—of course not—!” Mark spluttered. “I’m not—why would I—“

“Careful,” came the laugh. “He’s delicate. Sorry.”

Out from the kitchen came Johnny, carrying two steaming bowls of jjigae. Mark’s stomach churned violently. “I’m kidding. Who’s your friend?” Donghyuck said. His eyes turned the long-way down, appreciative.

“That's Johnny,” Mark croaked, and that was it, _click_ , now the slow-spiral: that evening they’d talked and talked—Johnny, lacking the crippling awkwardness that stunted Mark from most of his new relationships, complemented Donghyuck’s energy with a dizzying sort of back-and-forth. “I have to say, your 8 year-old performance in My First and Last was… legendaric,” Johnny said, tipping the glass of Sprite in his mouth with one pinky lifted.

Donghyuck nodded sagely. “Wasn’t it? It was, as the kids call it—“ and here his mouth quirked, the shape a little sharper than what Mark saw of it online, “—a cultural reset.”

Johnny’s laughter rang around the room. A nice easy sound. Johnny raised his glass. “Didn’t think you’d be so down-to-earth, Lee Haechan.”

“Didn’t think your food would taste as good as the posters, and yet, here we are.”

They shared a grin. Mark slurped his noodles, watching them.

“Won’t they kick us out?” Donghyuck said, turning to him.

“Nah, Johnny’s folks own the place, it’s cool.” Mark checked his phone. It was 11:54 PM; they were the only ones left. “We should leave soon though.”

“Huh, no way,” Donghyuck gasped. He rummaged around his canvas bag and pulled out a calling card. Only three lines there, printed in no-fuss serif: _Lee Haechan. Artist._ Deceivingly simple.

“You’re a photographer right?” Donghyuck asked Johnny. “My manager’s number is there. Just text him, and I’ll handle everything.” He pushed off the table, downed the last of Johnny’s Sprite, and hurried to the door before any of them could clarify what he said, like a cooler, indie version of Cinderella. “It was nice meeting you kids! Text me, okay!”

After that, Donghyuck flitted in and out of their lives, like he was still deciding whether he would give them the time of day. He didn’t show up at the Cherry Bomb, but his voice trickled out of Youtube ads, winked at Johnny when they walked past his face from the backs of speeding buses. Mark watched his latest indie movie, when it came out—an epistolary coming-of-age drama with a fresh-faced cast and Do Kyungsoo of all things—and with each of Donghyuck’s kissing scenes (plural), Mark politely looked away, flustered, then listened half-heartedly to Johnny’s period evangelizing of the local film scene’s rebirth.

Still, life went on; Mark went to college, sang covers to pay rent, came home to the apartment he shared with Johnny and wrote his own love songs in secret.

“It was pretty wild,” Mark agreed, when Johnny brought it up; a trending Naver article contested whether Lee Haechan rightfully deserved the title of Korea’s Darling, given his questionable project choices. Mark reached under Johnny’s arm for a spoon while Johnny wrestled with the cereal box. “Like—I don’t know anything about movies but like—hey, can you pass me the—thanks—like, it was real, in a good way. You know? Like, there was too much talking. And it was kinda draggy? But that’s like—life, right? If anything, it's cool he’s trying new things.”

Johnny hummed. “I think doing the movie was pretty dope. But that’s just my onion,” he said, filling Mark’s bowl with Cheerios, and then his own. He scowled at the label. “You can only be yourself for too long before you get sick of it.”

Mark laughed at the faux seriousness, but later wished he’d paid more attention. He prided himself in being fluent in _Johnny-speak_ , but this moment held a punchline he’d keep trying to decipher, years later. How—right under his nose—Johnny was growing up, and he’d missed the joke.

Then one Tuesday night, in the pizza place their friends liked, Johnny pulled out the card and shoved it under Doyoung’s nose. “You’re shitting me,” Doyoung said, dropping his pizza on the plate. He pushed his laptop aside, where he’d been working on a pitch deck for Underdog, the indie magazine he ran with Taeyong and Johnny, their resident photographer. Doyoung squinted at it, hard and disbelieving. Everybody knew Doyoung was a closet fan.

“This is fake.”

Johnny shrugged, with fake detachment. “Call it then.” He held the card out.

“What?"

“Call the number. _Lee Haechan’s_ number.”

Doyoung snatched the card, called it, and blanched within two minutes when the line picked. “I told you,” Johnny mouthed cheekily, as Doyoung nodded, hastily taking down notes, then stared at the card after the call like it was a golden ticket to see a chocolate factory. He wore the same expression a week later, when Lee Donghyuck arrived in Underdog’s studio, like a trick of the light.

“These are so good,” Donghyuck gushed. He pushed himself out of the stylist's chair so he get a closer look at the takes in Johnny’s LCD display. The concept was old school, 90’s boy band nostalgia. “For real! Even the outtakes are gold—could I have them?”

Ever the provider, Johnny only laughed. “Sure.”

“I’m not even kidding, like—you didn’t even need to use the _props_ ,” Donghyuck said. He held Johnny’s exposed bicep where it jutted out his fit black shirt with a little too much attention. “You’re like—a genius.”

“Oh, stop it.” Johnny waved him off, laughing too loudly. “You think so?”

From the corner, Mark stared at his shoes, trying not to watch it happen like he was a damn extra. He was so focused on trying _not_ to focus that he missed Johnny’s question entirely.

The set had quieted, and everyone had turned to stare at him. “Penny for your thoughts?” Johnny smiled at him expectantly. “What do you think about the pictures, Mark?”

Mark jolted. “Yep,” he said, clapping like a fool. “Yep, they’re great.”

Donghyuck preened. “See?”

“Aw, Markie,” Johnny mock-cried, but Mark saw the tense line on his shoulders dissipate. Johnny carried confidence like a second-skin, like he didn’t just almost tear out his hair the night prior, angry for not being able to be innovative enough, doubting everything. That was why Mark came, to stop the spiral.

When Underdog’s online spring issue got released, with Lee Haechan as a special guest, nobody expected what happened next. Johnny got the call minutes later.

“ _Twitter_ , _you heathen_ ,” Doyoung hissed. " _Log in and check your notifs!_ "

Johnny obeyed. His eyes nearly popped out his head.

> @itshaechan00 mentioned you in a tweet
> 
> _think my photographer didn’t get the memo. this was supposed to be MY shoot huffs 😫 jk love u johnny-hyung!_

And there was Johnny, two pictures of him—black muscle tee, gray sweatpants, bandana on his head; that magnetic solemn look on his face whenever he worked his magic, lips dancing on the edge of a smile. _That_ Johnny.

Mark peered down Johnny’s phone and whistled. “Oi,” he said intelligently. It was too early for this.

“Jesus, you can get 21 thousand likes? Is that um, a normal amount?” The question was tinged with a bit of hysteria; Mark couldn’t be bothered with a response; he was still thinking about the pictures, the way the light fell on Johnny’s skin. Mark already knew; Donghyuck wasn’t the only star in that shoot.

“ _They’re not even that good, but those photos really brought out your, uh—assets_ ,” Taeyong said, stealing the phone from Doyoung. “ _Can you believe all these thirst tweets! Look—hot polaroid guy is trending at number seven. It’s nine in the morning!_ ”

“ _Don’t forget to tag Underdog in your bio, okay?_ ” said Doyoung, ever the strategist. “ _Don’t you forget, John!_ ”

“Who took these photos, anyway?” Johnny said.

“I did,” Mark croaked, and Johnny’s face widened. “I’m sorry—I was just messing around with your camera, I didn’t think he’d ask for those too—“

“Dude,” Johnny said. “Thanks for making me look hot.”

“You’re—I mean,” Mark coughed. “That’s literally how you look all the time.” And before the implications of what he said could really sink in, Johnny had taken his face with both hands, his face locked and serious; Mark spluttered and turned red immediately—he always did this, it was just a Johnny thing—cutting into Mark’s personal space like a hot knife through butter.

“Shhh… you don’t understand, Mark,” Johnny said, and his thumb slid from Mark’s cheek up to his fringe, finding the childhood welt by his temple that no one else knew about. Pressing into it, Mark’s pulse jumped, and Johnny continued, “It’s a curse. I can’t help it if I was born with such a _bangin_ ’ _bod_.”

Mark shoved him off. Johnny laughed, letting himself fall away like he wasn’t made out of steel itself.

“I made it, mom! I’m Twitter-famous now.” He pocketed his phone and grabbed his keys. Turning to Mark with a grin, he said, “I think we should celebrate this major milestone. This is it; my _peak_. Get dressed, I'm taking you out for burritos.”

It was nothing momentary. If anything, Johnny’s stunt as _hot polaroid guy_ lasted for 3 weeks and 2 days—enough time to get agents on his tail, offering actual modelling gigs. All of which Johnny politely turned down—“Sorry, I’m really flattered, but I’m a photographer first, really.”—until those modelling gigs turned into actual photo gigs, and well—Johnny wasn’t stupid. He knew an opportunity when he saw one.

By week four, Johnny had gained about ten thousand new followers of Twitter, and eight thousand on Instagram. Each time he posted a new batch of photos, engagement went off the roof, bleeding over into his old work, and even Underdog’s very first online issues, when they were still bright-eyed fresh graduates in Doyoung’s home studio. That was when Donghyuck re-appeared, joining Johnny on photowalks around Han River and Hongdae, hanging off Johnny’s shoulder like they knew each other for years. He came to Mark’s gigs too—Mark nearly choked seeing him there, watching from the table with Johnny—Donghyuck requesting Beyonce each time to his endless chagrin. “Is he always this _uptight_?” Donghyuck said, and Johnny replied, “Born and raised, baby.”—click—it was like Johnny had found the sweet spot—that uplift in the air that shot him up and up and _up;_ each new gig he did only seemed to multiply the halo effect, and Underdog started to get real clients—“Like real, big-money type, you know?” Taeyong said— _click_ —“I'm really sorry, Markie, I got a gig on Friday night but I’ll try to catch up, okay? You can say no when someone requests Beyonce, it’s your right.”— _click_ —Doyoung, in behalf of Underdog, gifted Johnny a fruit basket after their first successful client shoot, saying tearfully, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but keep doing it, I love you.”— _click_ —Johnny's weekends were booked, and each time he went home at 3am smelling like samgyupsal and Lee Haechan’s Dior Homme Intense, and still Mark was so happy for him, he managed to surprise him with a new roll of film from his measly savings; he just needed a day without Donghyuck or any of Johnny's clients around around to give it— _click_ —Mark texted: _oh my gosh hyung, you’re getting so big it’s crazy don’t forget about me okay_ , and when Johnny replied 12 hours and 2 minutes later, with an, _oh such is life of an Artiste :D thanks Mark_ , Mark’s heart twinged only a little bit.

 _Click_ —two months later, Mark was staring at Donghyuck’s toothbrush in their sink.

It was pink, between Johnny’s electric toothbrush and Mark’s green one. Pink, like his own high-top converse strewn on the floor, by Johnny’s door. Pink, like the soft-bitten skin on Johnny’s clavicle, and the love-addled blush on his cheeks when Donghyuck tottered out the room in shorts and Johnny’s big black hoodie. Mark blinked, walked out of the kitchen and back into the bathroom. But the toothbrush was still there. Didn’t move, didn’t dissipate into toxic fumes.

“I think Mark Lee is awake!” Donghyuck called, and if Mark wasn’t he was definitely awake now. Mark padded back into the kitchen where they were already lounging on the table. Donghyuck pushed his sleeves up, stirring a pot of something velvet. “I’m making hot chocolate. Hurry and gimme your cup.”

“It’s perfect,” Johnny moaned around his mug; his hair was in disarray, like Donghyuck had run his hands through it. “Have some, dude. Tastes like home.”

Mark accepted his now-steaming cup with a smile and sat down hesitantly. There was food on the table, but his mind blurred them out. He felt like an intruder.

Johnny watched his face across the table, looking loose like he always did after a good shoot, or a good fuck. Both, Mark decided, throat tightening.

“Well?” Donghyuck pressed.

Mark took a sip, and sweetness flooded his mouth. Suddenly, he was hyper-aware of the way time flowed, the way Donghyuck sat on the kitchen counter all splayed out, There—on the table, a perfect plate of sunny side eggs and a good, Korean breakfast Mark never knew how to make, and Johnny’s cheeks were full and pink, and when Donghyuck prodded him again there was no doubt about it, and he said, voice cracking, “Perfect. It’s perfect.”

### Lee Donghyuck Unearths A Relic, Part One

“That’s it for tonight! Thanks everyone for coming, I hope you enjoyed the show,” Mark said into his mic, holding his strings still. It always made him blush, saying it—as if all these aunties came here for him, not for the greasy fusion food Johnny’s parents served. Still, the crowd gave him a few measly claps, polite—or bored, like the regular who always sat at the front every other day with nothing else to do. There were louder voices too, and when Mark squinted against the glare of the spotlight and found them, his heart raced.

“Sit down,” Mark hissed, stuttering out a laugh as he all but scrambled to their table. Johnny kept his standing ovation, and Donghyuck—the sight still strange, but welcome—lifted his cup to toast.

“Bravo, my songbird!” Johnny said. Mark swiped the Coke from his hands and put it down, and they all sat eventually.

“I thought you guys left after Yuta’s set,” Mark whined, trying not to let his eyes rove. Johnny and Donghyuck made a strange, eye-catching pair, even stranger tonight; it was like Freaky Friday, how Johnny wore a red turtleneck and black leather jacket, while Donghyuck wore an ensemble from Johnny’s usual in college; an oversized beige sweater that went a little past his thumbs, ripped jeans that flirted tanned skin.

“And leave my baby behind? Never.” Johnny reclined, eyes sparkling. “It’s Friday! Was thinking we could go out. Road trip!”

Mark gasped, “Ice cream?” It had been a good two months since their last ice cream run.

“We’ll get you real food first,” and when Mark whined some more, Johnny sighed, extremely put-upon, said “and _then_ you can get ice cream after.” He shushed Mark before he could open his mouth. “Chocolate. I already know, I’m not _stupid_.”  
  
“You guys are ridiculous,” Donghyuck said. He was giving them that look again, like they were the best thing since sliced bread. “Remind me—you’ve known each other since when?”

“The beginning of time,” Johnny said, in his documentary voice. He pretended to topple sideways when Mark swatted his shoulder, nearly colliding with other customers as they stood up and made their way out. Mark rolled his eyes and pushed him, just because.

“So violent,” Johnny mumbled, as Mark announced, “Twenty years. Now do you see what I have to deal with? I think I was cursed in a previous life, Hyuck.” And now it was Johnny’s turn to put him in a headlock. Donghyuck watched it all, his eyes glittering.

 _This is why you can’t score dates_ , Doyoung told them, once upon a time, gesturing vaguely at the white space between Mark and Johnny like there was something off-putting there, an invisible horrendous blight tendered by time. But while most people were uncomfortable by their history, Donghyuck navigated it with ease, cracking open the blinds to Johnny’s favor and basking there. He was smart like that. Three years since Johnny’s last girlfriend, and he’d been the first to see past Mark’s standoffish awkwardness and Johnny’s initial menacing aura, reaching his small hands past the gates and finding the truth: that if anything, Johnny was like a big, loyal dog. Get him once and he’s yours, forever.

Mark would know. As Johnny and Donghyuck walked ahead, Mark tried not to think about the hand Donghyuck slipped into Johnny’s back pocket. The nonchalant way Johnny let him.

When their knuckles brushed, Mark looked away. This was protocol he was used to. He could do it again, right?

### Lee Donghyuck Unearths A Relic, Part Two

“Where’s the aux? Bluetooth? No?” Donghyuck’s face fell dramatically as Johnny shook his head. “I’m dating a heathen,” was Donghyuck’s response, but he punched the stereo on and bumped it up as the first few chords trickled out— _ooh, baby do you know what that’s worth?_ —and as Johnny sent them breezing down the highway, Donghyuck leaned back on the passenger’s seat and sought Mark’s gaze through the rearview mirror, grinning when they began to sing themselves hoarse.

“You!” Donghyuck said once the song ended, startling a laugh out of Mark. “You got any originals? I bet you do. Johnny, you didn't tell me we got a _singer_ in our midst!”

“He’s shy,” Johnny mused.

“Am _not_ ,” Mark said.

“Then why don’t you ever play them?”

“They’re not ready, okay?”

Johnny turned to Donghyuck. “He used to have a Soundcloud, isn’t that adorable?”

“Stop,” Mark moaned.

“Mark Lee, with a heartbreaker’s voice like that, I don’t know what you’re waiting for.” Donghyuck said. “You sound fucking great.”

“I keep telling him that, but he never believes me.” Through the mirror, Johnny shot him a betrayed look. “I swear, he’d be bigger if he tried moving out and playing in bigger clubs in Gangnam.”

“Glad for the confidence, guys. But maybe next time,” Mark lied. There was never a need to move, and that wasn’t going to change. Johnny was here. That, and thinking about all the love songs he’d composed, hidden in a secret folder made his head spin with nausea.

“Booooo,” Donghyuck said, then: “Hey, Johnny-hyung, what’s this—?” and if only Mark paid any attention he would’ve been able to snatch the moment back—Donghyuck’s hands unearthing the relic from Johnny’s glove compartment—and maybe he could’ve been quick enough to toss it out the window, where it could’ve been crushed by a tank or a beamed up by an alien spaceship, taken far far away from where Johnny’s eyes were turning to see the age-old handwriting on the CD jacket: _For J, From M—_

“Who's _M_ , hyung?” Donghyuck said, feeding the CD into the slit. All the oxygen in Mark’s body turned to ice. 10 seconds in, Donghyuck said, “Oh.”

Johnny was laughing. The sound was tight and wrong. “Oh, man, Markie—remember this?” and how could Mark not? There was Frank, narrating Mark’s first heartbreak with ease— _a tornado flew around my room before you came, excuse the mess it made_ —and suddenly Mark was fourteen again, offering the mixtape through the car window like a surrender, because Johnny was leaving for college, leaving the cul-de-sac and the summers and movie nights with Mark. Johnny ruffling Mark’s hair, his thumb finding the scar hidden in his hair like Mark was fucking Harry Potter, except there was nothing magical about this—about cars leaving and never turning back—

“I love this song,” Donghyuck murmured, and the spell broke; Mark was in Johnny’s car again. The city fell in streaks out the window. Mark’s face felt numb and hollow inside. As Donghyuck began to hum, Mark stared out into the night and wished for rain, that it would wash him home.

“Yeah,” Johnny agreed softly. “Same hat.”

“You said—“ Mark laughed. His fingers clawed into his own thigh. “You said you didn’t _get_ Frank.”

“Took me a few listens.” Johnny turned the corner, careful as always. “But I got what you meant, eventually. It’s a really cool album.”

“I didn’t know you kept it.” Mark tried to go for unbothered, but his voice cracked from the weight of it. Through the rearview mirror, Donghyuck was watching him, his eyes wide and too knowing for his liking.

“It’s my most prized possession,” Johnny said with sudden seriousness.

“You suck,” Mark said. He let his face drop into his hands. “Did you—this is so stupid. I’m so embarrassed right now.”

“Aw, don’t be! You guys are the cutest,” Donghyuck cooed, pinching Johnny’s cheek. “I wish I had a childhood bestie.”

Mark looked out the window, pressing his hot forehead against the glass. _Be quiet_ , he willed, choking the pulse on his wrist, and was grateful when Donghyuck dialed the volume up as they entered the tunnel, the dark shrouding his face and keeping him hidden for another day longer.

### We’re All Dead Here, Part One

“No entourage today?” came Yuta’s voice. On Saturdays his band played last—his _fuck-around band_ , as he liked to call it—and Mark liked to stick around to watch their sets. He was a real fan, alright; Yuta was a more than competent drummer, and with Taeil and Jungwoo on vocals and guitar, Jaehyun on bass, they made a magnetic bunch. They used to hang out more, until they started scoring gigs outside Hongik, optimizing their repertoire. As always, Mark liked to stay put.

“Not today,” was the only thing Mark said.

Yuta frowned. Wiping the sweat dotting his forehead, his eyes roved the floor for the familiar tallness. “It’s really weird seeing you without your other brain cell.”

“He has a shoot. For some... magazine.” 

Yuta whistled. “Damn, well,” he said, glancing at his phone, "we gotta go ahead too.”

“Where to?”

“Mad Dog. We’re opening an album launch for a band called Your Gig Is Cancelled. I know—meta, right?”

“Opening?” Mark looked at his own phone. “But it’s 11:30 PM.”

Yuta grinned, wolfish. “Yep.”

Mark watched the band pack up, the last of the customers filing off as the staff piled empty ramen bowls and gathered metal chopsticks like loose toothpicks, flipping the sign to _CLOSE_ as the lights outside were flicked off—and maybe it was because he was alone, because he’d left the last of his decision-making capacity with Johnny, who was a city away doing something for his _own_ dream—or because he was restless, feeling the slow monotony his own existence choking him from the inside like a hundred year-repressed cough, that he surprised himself, grabbing his guitar and calling out—

“Hyung, _wait_ —wait up! Can I come?”

### We’re All Dead Here, Part Two

“It was a joke, but you _really_ don’t get out much, do you?” Yuta said. The red of his hair caught the street lights outside the window. The last bus rumbled and clicked sleepily, but with his hair alight, Yuta looked like a human torch, guiding him home.

Mark managed a sheepish smile. Outside, the street unravelled like a technicolor spool, and Mark wondered if this was the same sight Johnny saw each time he left for his late-night gigs. Yuta had sat with him, while the rest of the band took the seat across them, playing games on their phones.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Mark said, embracing his guitar case to his chest. “I feel like Dorothy.”

Yuta looked at him blankly.

“You know—Dorothy? Tin Man? We’re not in Kansas any—nevermind, sorry.” By then he’d suddenly realized what drew him to Yuta the first time they met; theirs was a kinship you couldn’t invent, the kind that came from leaving your homes and finding a strange city when you woke. In all the ways that mattered, Yuta was just like him.

“Narnia, right?” Yuta said, finally. Mark didn’t correct him. “I don’t know much about Narnia, but I get it. Took me a while before I could leave the house, too. It gets bigger and bigger when you don’t watch it. You wake up one day, and you just have to leave, you know?” His grin returned. “You’re like—Chihiro. And I’m the dragon, leading you into the afterlife.”

“Wh—“

“Shh,” Yuta said, putting a finger to Mark’s lips. “The dead don’t talk.”

Mark found that unspeakably profound, but could only giggle. “I love Ghibli,” Mark said, and didn’t know what was so funny about that to warrant the kind laugh that spilled out of Yuta—a full-body laugh, eyes and cheeks dimpling. Beside them, Jungwoo and Taeil shot them curious glances. “What?”

“ _What_ ,” Yuta imitated, twisting his ear. Yuta had a really pretty smile. “Weeb. Hey Mark Lee—let’s have fun tonight, yeah?”

### We’re All Dead Here, Part Three

 _Front row seats_ , Jungwoo promised—which Mark quickly realized meant he was being used to watch the band’s bags as they set up on stage. Mark fished his phone out his pocket and texted Johnny: _Don’t wait up, i’m watching yuta’s gig hehe_

Johnny replied, an hour later: _I guess i’ll eat this pizza all by myself :( jk, have fun oppa_

The lights in Mad Dog were different compared to Johnny's restobar—muted, dark red, then purple, then _blue_ , like a technicolor seance. It was strange, looking into the crowd without spotting a single boomer stuffing their face in their greasy food. This crowd was electric, reckless and thrumming like a live-wire. The hairs on Mark’s forearms stood.

Mark knew his friends were good, but they had a knack for surprising him. In their second song, Yuta peeled off his shirt and tossed it out to Mark, who yelped, “That’s gross!” but caught it anyway, and Yuta laughed irreverently; Jungwoo pointed him out in the darkness, announcing, “this song’s for our very special maknae, who decided to leave his house and grace us with his presence tonight. Give him a hand guys—he needs a little positive reinforcement!” Mark ducked his head but couldn’t quite hide how he enjoyed the applause, or the rest of this rowdy, sweaty box at the edge of ghost-town—the miracle of Taeil’s and Jaehyun’s vocals, Yuta owning the beat and winking at him between songs. When Yuta kissed Jungwoo full on the mouth in the guitar solo, all heat and tongue—Mark found himself roaring along with the crowd.

“Anyone know this song?” Taeil grinned—it was the rock version of _Don’t Start Now_ by Dua Lipa. Jaehyun introduced the slick bass-line like it was no one’s business, and immediately the place was doused in heat. The way they carried music was different, too; not the back-breaking, _difficult_ relationship Mark always had with his own words. As Taeil began to sing, Mark could only watch, mouth ajar. If only osmosis worked on humans too.

“Don’t be so stiff,” Yuta yelled, after their set ended and a DJ took their place, and without warning Yuta had nudged Mark into the crowd, where the spell was its most potent. Gripping his hip, Yuta laughed at the face Mark made, assured him, “ _Relax_ , you're already dead, remember?” and Mark stared into his eyes and felt something inside him unclip, shift, and expand—

### Feel It Bubbling From Below, Part One

When it finally happened, it was too late to rearrange his face into something neutral. Mark had been staring at Yuta’s text— _Taeil-hyung's sick, you think you could cover him tonight?_ 🙏🏼 🙏🏼 🙏🏼—with it came image of what was possible: singing his own shit under Mad Dog’s lights, his own guitar, possibly electric if Jungwoo lent him his baby—and his heart seized, and he let himself bask in it without consequence for two whole seconds, until he got cold feet. Mark always got cold feet, in the end.

He padded into the kitchen, face ducked into his phone—and walked right into the scene: there was Donghyuck, in his rumpled jeans, pressing Johnny against the cupboard, Johnny’s hand fisted in Donghyuck’s soft hair. Their bodies were moving.

“Oh," Mark stuttered. His brain did an emergency shut down, then rebooted. He dived for his phone where it fell, and when he straightened the pair had shoved a five foot space between them, their chests heaving.

“Mark Lee! Good morning, princess,” Donghyuck greeted. His hair was in disarray. Johnny wasn’t faring any better. Mark tried not to glance at the obvious tent in his jeans.

“Mark,” Johnny said simply. He leaned an elbow behind him, which turned out to be the sink, and he flailed. “Good—good morning. How long—?”

“Sorry, I—“ Mark didn’t know what to do with his hands. “I’ll just—I should go—“

“No,” they both said out loud.

“I mean,” Donghyuck began, glancing at Johnny. “We were just—making breakfast. Right?”

“Right.” Johnny nodded. “Breakfast. It is breakfast—that we are making.”

Last night, Mark had heard about the news of this poor man’s chandelier, one day falling on him without warning—crushing him instantly. Mark didn’t have a chandelier, but right now he wished for that same, random, swift death. It wasn’t like Mark didn’t know either—just seeing it was different than theory, twenty times more potent than hearing a phantom gasp through the walls.

So his best friend was really dating a _boy_. _Johnny Suh_ was dating a _boy_ —kissing him, making out in the apartment they shared, who knew what else? God, Mark should’ve bought a chandelier.

“Guys, no, you—“ Mark began with a hysteric edge. “It’s okay. Haha. I just didn’t think—the two of you—“

“Yeah,” Johnny interrupted, sliding a palm to cover the ridiculous hickey on his neck. Mark had been caught staring. “Yeah, the two of us… _surprise_?”

As if sensing the change in the room, Donghyuck closed the distance between him and Johnny and slipped his arm into his elbow, pressing into his side almost protectively. The rush of hot jealousy hit Mark faster than he could name it; Donghyuck fit in there like he was made for it.

“I mean, I didn’t plan on it or anything, but Johnny here made some convincing points,” Donghyuck said, and Mark managed a weak laugh at that. So _Johnny_ had asked first. “And he can be very convincing.”

“Yeah, he’s good at getting what he wants,” Mark agreed, which seemed to be the right thing to say, because Donghyuck glowed. “One of his many talents,” he said, and wanted to add, _he can burp the alphabet but he won’t because his first girlfriend said it was disgusting. And he’s never grumpy in the morning. His back massages are the best._

Johnny's bottom lip would start bleeding if he kept up the way he was chewing on it.

“So, while we’re in this horribly awkward situation—do I get the blessing of the best friend or what?” Donghyuck said. He unravelled from Johnny’s side and made a show of pouring Mark a cup of coffee from the press on the counter. “I’m not feral all the time. I can be domesticated if you want me to.”

Mark laughed, accepting the mug. The sound was too loud in the room. “Stop, you don’t have to—prove anything to me or anything—I’m happy for you guys, really—it’s just… I don’t know,” he said, and the way Johnny’s grin dimmed was a small victory. _Bullseye_. Mark knew the sway his stupid opinions had on Johnny, just as Johnny’s had on him. Stalling, he sipped his drink, feeling callous. Mark could destroy him, just like that.

“I didn’t think you were into dudes,” Mark finished finally. He couldn’t do it. The arrowheads stayed in his fist.

“Really? Well, personally I had my doubts,” Johnny said, scratching his neck. “But uh, mostly it’s been a recent development.”

Mark moved to the table, reaching for the cream. “He had two girlfriends before,” he told Donghyuck, and he didn’t know why; his hurt was a thrashing, living thing, existing separate from him. “He’s still friends with them.” The hurt perched on his shoulder, whispered: _keep talking._

“Oh?” Donghyuck said. “Johnny didn't tell me that.”

Mark shrugged. “It’s okay, they didn’t last long anyway.” A lovely little laugh escaped Donghyuck’s mouth, but he held onto Johnny’s elbow a little tighter.

“Mark,” Johnny laughed, a warning. Mark stared into the swirling bits of lumpy cream in his lukewarm coffee and decided he didn’t want it.

“Well, thank god you didn’t turn out to be het,” he heard Donghyuck say. “What a waste of all this _potential_ , right?”

“I shouldn’t have given you caffeine,” Johnny groaned.

“I’m gonna—bathroom.”

Mark left his mug as he walked out, feeling Johnny’s gaze follow him into the hallway. He ducked into the bathroom, locked the door behind him and pressed his forehead into the mirror. Like a cosmic joke, Donghyuck’s pink toothbrush caught his eye. It took him every ounce of decency in his body not to swirl it in the toilet.

Mark shut his eyes, touching the lumpy scar under his bangs and remembered Johnny telling him, half a lifetime ago: _we’re not the bad guys, okay?_

Pressing his face into both hands, he let a bottled breath shudder out of him. _What am I doing?_

Swiping his phone open, he texted Yuta back: _sure i’m your guy_

### Feel It Bubbling From Below, Part Two

“I made a mistake,” Mark told Yuta, when he arrived at Mad Dog at 10 PM, and it was clear Mark wasn’t ready, not by a stretch. Taeil’s text read, _just do your thing!!,_ splashed with a generous amount of encouraging emoticons, but Mark was a mess, a pitiful baby bird, looking down the ledge to certain death. “I can’t do it. I made a mistake—I don’t have a, a, a _thing_ —“

“Yeah you do,” Yuta pressed, untangling the chord that had snaked around Mark’s ankle from all his frantic pacing. He kicked it off the side, like a dead snake. “Hey. Cover boy. You’re good at that, right? You don’t have to perform any new shit. Just _covers_ tonight, I told you. Nice and easy.”

Thirty minute intermission. Read: half an hour before Mark made a complete fool of himself. Someone in the audience was celebrating their birthday, his raucous friends gathered around a bucket of cold beer. Too bad Mark was going to be ruining it. This crowd of smart-looking university students would see right through his imposter’s facade in seconds; at least Cherry Bomb’s crowd cheered, no matter what kind of shit hit them. They wouldn’t know a good song if it was splashed like hot soup on their laps—that was their charm.

“Markie, it’ll be okay,” Jungwoo cooed. Jaehyun pushed past them, checking his amp and cringing at the bad resonance. Yuta did a little dramatic drumroll and didn’t look the least bit sorry. “Hey—look at me. Just like we practiced!”

Fifteen minutes left. Birthday boy in table two was a goner; at least he wouldn’t be sober to hear Mark’s voice cracks. Ten minutes. Mark had never played in a band before, he realized. Five. Oh, Jesus; Mad Dog didn’t have a chandelier either. Two. Maybe he’d have that talk with the manager next time.

“Just relax. We’ll cover for you, if anything happens, okay?” Jaehyun said.

One.

Yuta waved him over. “Look, isn't that Johnny?” he whispered when Mark came close enough.

"What—"

"Just kidding!"

"Not _fucking_ funny—"

Before he could demonstrate the rest of his outrage, Yuta shoved Mark under the spotlight, white beam strong enough to blind. Jungwoo tapped his mic: “You’ve all probably realized by now, but Taeil-sshi won’t be here today . . .“

Mark tuned him out, slapping on a shaky smile. He wiped his hands on his jeans. Adjusted his guitar strap.

Birthday boy cheered hoarsely.

Jungwoo’s spiel ended. Jaehyun nodded at Mark encouragingly. And to be fair, pushed to the wall like this, Mark was great at doing what he was told. A desperate, searing image: Johnny Suh at the back, white shirt and blue jeans. Same as always. Something in his chest settled.

“ _You’re my number one_ ,” Mark began. He held the chord there, felt it carry it him through. “ _You’re the one I—want_.” The word cracked at the end from its weight, but still, he kept it through.

Like Jaehyun promised, the band rallied behind him: Yuta’s drums crashed with each second, like waves breaking. Mark was lost in its depths. He’d sung this song many times before, but the stage and the lights and the band trickled something into his veins, until he was scorching from the inside. “ _So I’ll keep turning down the hands that beckon me to come—_ ” he was out of his skin now, incandescent, voice scratched and raw but it felt like a release, “ _I will be the one you need—I just can’t be without you_.”

Yuta, Jungwoo, and Jaehyun carried him the rest of the way. Mark’s head dropped to his chest as the final notes spun into a nosedive. The pendulum swung, taking him with it—words crashing into foam—Mark opened his eyes—Johnny was smiling—

 _Applause_ —

### Wade Into the Deep End

The buzz wouldn’t leave him after he’d done it—five more songs after Geyser, and Jaehyun and Taeil bowed into themselves with laughter at the first glimpse of Mark’s water legs as they exited the stage. Yuta had to unclamp each of Mark’s fingers from his guitar neck before he could clap him on the back, whistling, _Mark Lee!_ When strangers dropped by his table, saying, _that was cool, man, you got an EP?_ Yuta shooed them off like pesky insects, as if he could tell Mark’s transfiguration was at its limit. It was true; a weight shifted inside him, and it felt lighter after shedding the exoskeleton, but still, he’d revealed too much of himself tonight; time to come home.

Yuta took him out for a drive, when it was clear only a cool night out could calm Mark down. “So… that was really your first time performing outside Johnny’s bar?” Yuta said, and Mark laughed: “Well, if you don’t count my practice sessions in the shower—then yeah.” At 12:30 AM the city’s neon lights looked almost scenic, illuminating the road to nowhere. Yuta was right, Mark thought; he didn’t know what the fuss was all about, now that he’d done it. It was just a song, at the end of the day. Just a stage. He was still here, and nobody had struck him dead yet. Mark wanted to tell Johnny everything.

He pulled out his phone—then stopped. Yuta glanced at him when he sighed.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Yuta said, in such a familiar tone Mark tensed all over.

“Nothing,” he said, but when he felt Yuta’s unimpressed gaze, he relented. “No really—I just get these—thoughts, sometimes. Like, it’s crazy how much music there is out there! So much cool shit! I don’t know. I guess I just needed to get out more. You were right.”

Yuta pulled the car up a hill, and up here the view was a dream. The moon was big and luminous and good for secrets. “Keep talking, I’m listening,” Yuta said, like Mark’s very own spirit guide, and even that surprised him; Mark knew Yuta had a great ear for things other than music, but the kind of keen attention he kept providing was one in a million. Mark talked about everything; songwriting in secret, his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle obsession at 14, life before Korea, and eventually—Johnny.

Of course, his brain ratted on Donghyuck too. Yuta whistled.

“Do you know him?”

“No,” Yuta admitted. “Hey, I’m a foreigner, remember?” he added, as if they didn’t just pass by Donghyuck's face on the milk tea billboard ad on the way here.

They parked the car by the bend in the road, with a convenient stopover that jutted out into the sky. The rest of the city fell hushed below them, glowing faintly. As they got out the car and sat back against the hood, cool air nipped their cheeks, turned their noses pink.

“Look,” Yuta said, popping open a warm ginseng drink that he retrieved from the trunk—Mark passed politely—“I was alone when I first arrived here too, you know. No one wants to talk to some sad Japanese kid who can’t speak a drop of Korean.” The sharp indent of his Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank. “It’s cool you had Johnny. Not everyone’s paths meet like that, you know? You’re lucky. Aren’t you happy he’s found someone?”

Yuta kept hitting him where it hurt. Mark tried to hide it, but it was too late; Yuta had eyes Mark couldn’t hide from. “I mean—of course I am, but—“ Even now, with Yuta’s clarity, Mark couldn’t give the words form. He sighed.

The truth, then: “S’lonely.” Mark looked at Yuta, expecting a laugh, a look of pity—anything. Nothing came, and Mark continued, grateful, and small: “Course. He's my best friend. I’m happy if Johnny’s happy, you know? But have you ever tried thinking about your first ever memory? And how you can’t remember anything that happened before that? Like—it’s all fog.”

“...Yes? Because it’s my first memory? I think that’s the whole idea—“

“Listen. Anyway, bad metaphor. But that’s how it feels like. When I try thinking about how it was before Johnny. Or after. It’s always been—“ _Johnny and Mark, Mark and Johnny, two of us against the world,_ “—like this.” And now—now everything’s changing. Changed. I don’t know—“ Mark clawed into the meat of his palm and looked up at the moon, wished for it swallow him whole. “Maybe I’m just bad at growing up. Johnny says—he says I grew up trying too hard to be the textbook perfect son that I missed out on all sorts of stuff. It fucked with my brain. I skipped my whole teenage rebellion phase, which should’ve been an essential part of my character development, or whatever.” Mark laughed. “He fucking jinxed me! Said it’s bound to rise out of me sooner or later.”

Yuta’s lips barely twitched. He tilted his head, watching Mark carefully. “What stuff did you miss out on?”

“Huh?”

“What’d you miss out on? You know. While you were busy being perfect.”

“I don’t know,” Mark mumble-laughed. “Stuff.”

A dangerous grin slanted Yuta’s mouth. He planted an arm on the hood behind Mark, eyes narrowing like he could smell the blood in the water. Mark’s pulse jumped; this close he could smell Yuta’s cologne. “Should I start guessing?”

“No—”

“Pretty sure you’re not the stoner type. Nah. What could be Mark Lee’s poison? I wonder. You’re too much of a good Sunday school kid to—“ then Yuta paused, like something big and revelatory dawned on him. Mark squirmed in his grip. “Mark Lee—you wanna mess around with hot girls?"

Yuta’s gaze dropped shamelessly to Mark’s mouth. Mark was definitely not trying to think about the way Yuta kissed Jungwoo onstage again earlier. And maybe it was the moon, something in the air, or Johnny’s curse that he stood his ground and said, “Not girls.”

Yuta’s eyebrows rose, birds-in-flight. “Not girls?”

Mark gave up on eye contact. “I know how to kiss girls.”

“Ah,” Yuta hummed. “Boys, then.”

Mark swallowed. Eventually, his eyes found Yuta’s face again, where there was nothing there he could pin to judgement, or even teasing. Just sight. Mark breathed, and for the first time, let himself be seen.

“Silly Mark Lee, there’s loads more you can do than kissing,” Yuta began slowly. “There’s a whole _universe_ you can do. Kissing is like— _psh_ —you try it once and you're good. Like riding a bicycle. Kiss one boy and you’ve kissed them all, really. If you really wanna know—“

“Stop.” Mark covered Yuta’s mouth, before he could embarrass him to death. “Of course I fucking know that’s not all there is. It’s stupid. What does it mean to “grow up” anyway? That’s what I wanna know. Like—how do you know you _made it_? That you’ve— _arrived_ —“ he yelped—Yuta had licked his palm, like some feral cat.

“Simple,” Yuta said, pulling Mark’s wrist down and freeing his mouth. “You go out there. You shake things up. Or let things shake you. You fuck up. Do it again. Keep shaking the can until all the bad stuff settles down at the bottom.” Yuta’s grin looked sharper tonight, pulled into an unearthly definition. He thumbed Mark’s chin. “They usually do, in the end.”

"That’s sounds like that Ril guy. That poet. Rilke? Johnny likes him.” Mark didn't know what he was saying anymore; he’d lost his senses the moment he hopped into Yuta’s car. Right now he was burning, anxious energy transmuted into heat.

“Ril who?” Yuta was saying. Mark worried his lip, watching a thousand city lights catch on Yuta’s silver dangling earring. The instinct jumped in him—he simply followed it. He tugged on it once, twice.

“Rilke—“ Mark managed. “He—uh—wrote a book of something—sorry I forgot what I was saying.”

Yuta’s grin was Cheshire-wide. “You wanted to know about sex.”

“What!” Mark said, releasing Yuta’s stupid earring. “No.” But as Yuta’s grin shunted into an unimpressed line, Mark realized, quickly, how useless self-consciousness was around Yuta; Nakamoto Yuta, who hated liars and went for the front seat on the mechanical dragon ride last year while Mark watched. Mark had been half-baked all his life. He didn’t have to be tonight. “No. Well, I mean—on the topic of growing up—how did you—“

“How did a foreigner like manage to have a sex life? Or how do I hook up with dudes, in general?”

“Uhhhh,” Mark said. “Both? I mean! I don’t want to pry—“

Yuta’s laugh was a breathy staccato. “It’s okay, it’s all true. It sucked in the beginning, if that makes you feel better. But sex is just sex, you know? At least, until you really start thinking about yourself. Think about it: how can you lead your life when you can't even look at your own body? Shit like that. Actually—“ Yuta paused. “Actually, wait. Don’t take that shit seriously. You’re not supposed to want it. If you don’t want sex, that’s fine, too. But if you do—“ he shrugged. “I don’t see why not go out and try some.”

“What should I do then,” Mark swallowed. “If I want… to try?”

“Try what exactly?”

Oh, this was just cruel now.

“You know.” Mark whined. He touched his neck. “Stuff.”

“Words, Mark Lee. You’re twenty-one years old.”

“Everything. Wanna—” Mark’s gaze dropped down to Yuta’s mouth, “—try everything. See if I like it.”

Mark’s heart jumped when Yuta pulled Mark’s hand. Just when he thought Yuta would kiss him, he pressed his mouth into the center of Mark’s open palm; his lips were dry, and very _warm_. Mark shuddered. “Oh, Mark. Baby. You know you don’t have to right?” Yuta whispered. “Told you. S’not everything. It’s just sex.”

It wasn’t just sex to Mark; Mark felt like he’d been running on borrowed time. Twenty-one empty years of it—choking his desire against his own fist, because the walls were thin; changing the pronouns on his love poems, sealing them shut in blank CDs and hiding them forever. Not everyone got their good endings, especially if you’re a gay Asian kid who spent half a lifetime a stranger to his own country. Apparently, not until Johnny brought home a boy one day, pressed him into his bed, Mark on the other side of the wall—still running.

“I know—“ Mark dipped his head, feeling the heat from Yuta’s mouth travel outward from his palm, up his wrist and fingertips. “But I need—I need to see—“

Mark pressed close, drunk on the proximity of Yuta’s breath. Yuta looked at him with an intensity that was off-the-books crazy, and Mark responded by squeezing his hip with his sweaty hand.

“C—can I kiss you?” Mark managed, eventually—and thank god Yuta didn’t laugh, or he would’ve chickened out forever, or stood in front of the bend until he was roadkill. Instead, Yuta tugged him closer by his belt loops and licked the tip of his nose. By normal circumstances, this would’ve been gross, but Mark was already a goner.

And the fall: “Go for it, champ.”

Mark kissed him. And kissed him. And kissed him. Yuta’s hair was soft. When Mark opened his mouth—he forgot to breathe! He was kissing a boy!—Yuta’s tongue briefly licked his bottom lip and that single wet heat was enough to send Mark into a frenzy. He gasped, canting against Yuta’s waist.

“Hyung—“ Mark begged, sliding both hands on Yuta’s shoulders. “Hyung. Do you—do you want—”

Yuta was laughing in disbelief. “What the hell. Christ. What the hell. Oh look at you,” he cooed. “You really want me to be your first time?”

“Yeah, you can—whatever—“ Mark buried his face into Yuta’s neck, breath labored as Yuta’s hand crept up his side and thumbed the dip on his hip, “—pop my cherry or whatever.”

“Jesus,” Yuta said, then pulled him inside the car.

Yuta drove them to his place slowly, as if to give him time to pull his shit together, maybe cool down the embarrassing tent in his jeans. When they arrived at Yuta’s apartment, he’d fetched a cold can of Coke for Mark and didn’t say anything when he scurried to the bathroom in a fried mess of nerves, and when he’d sat himself on the toilet seat he was still thinking about it—it was impossible not to. Yuta was _hot_. And he was going to have sex with him. Jesus Christ.

When Mark found his old courage again, he sat on the edge of Yuta's bed after taking a quick shower. Yuta looked up from his magazine and groaned at the tight, cramped look on his face, said, “Relax, we’re not signing a contract. I promise. Look, we can just rewatch some old episodes of—“ and Mark really _was_ going to chicken out if he continued to listen to Yuta _monologue_ , no matter how profound a declaration it was, so he interrupted him with a clumsy kiss, and that wasn’t so bad, was it? Hands were complicated; Mark didn’t know where to put them. He felt the hard planes of Yuta’s abs, the tiny trace of stubble on his chin, and that was good. “Let’s warm you up,” Yuta said cloyingly into his ear, his very own death angel. They kissed and kissed and Mark rutted against Yuta’s thigh and soon they were peeling each others’ boxers off. It drove Mark bonkers—the smell, the feel of skin, Yuta’s hands between his legs and his lips on his chest and the burning bloomed so wildly inside of him, grassfire and smoke, that he was almost afraid of its size, but not once did Yuta ever look away. Yuta took it all in, watching him with kind, blown eyes: the the year-old hunger, the ugly raw want inside him that Mark failed to kill, all those years ago—even later, when Yuta pried Mark’s legs apart, kissed him on the knee like he was something precious, and took him in his mouth, and Mark really went underwater. “Oh my god,” Mark said, like a warning—an impossible tide uprooted inside him and he came so hard the world went white for one out-of-body moment. After, the miracle: he didn’t feel dirty. As Yuta cleaned him, Mark took his hand and squeezed it, managing a shaky, disbelieving, “Holy shit.” Which meant to say, _thank you, for seeing me_. Yuta only winked, like he didn’t just turn Mark’s entire world upside down. He’d never know just what he did for Mark that day, probably never will.

Mark broke the agreement first. The next day, he didn’t mean to talk about it, but it was like the spirit of horniness itself had possessed him. His alarm blared, his eyes shot open, and all he could think about was fucking: Yuta’s fingers in his mouth. The shuttered groan he managed to pull out of him. His very own brain rot had a whole new dimension to it now; was this what Johnny felt too, the first time with Donghyuck?

He’d braced himself for the hurt, but it didn’t come. Instead, it stoked the fire in him more. Mark padded into Yuta’s kitchen, keeping silent as Yuta talked mindlessly about a recipe he wanted to try, and maybe he’d been too obvious that he was just staring at Yuta’s lips, because Yuta sighed, said, “Jesus, _come here_ —“ and pushed him up the counter, Mark begging if they could do it again, just one more round? “I’ve created a monster," Yuta announced, but pushed their boxers down anyway, jerking them off together—and wasn’t that eye-opening, game-changing, abso-fucking-lutely mind-blowing, watching his own dick lined up with another man’s? That was a first. And later, after another performance at Mad Dog, Mark had texted Johnny— _don’t wait up!_ —and Yuta had let Mark navigate him on his bed, let Mark put it in, the artful arc of his back so terribly beautiful, like a viola’s side, and Mark thought he was really getting a hang of this whole sex thing until Yuta looked back at him and _cooed_ —Mark didn’t want Yuta to find him cute, Mark wanted him to thrash and lose his mind like Mark was slowly losing his, so he’d fucked harder, letting him really have it, and maybe he’d been doing a shitty job because Yuta flipped them over and rode him himself, hands pinning Mark’s wrists to the sheets, teeth scraping Mark’s ear, and that was nice too, more than nice. Mark was spinning out of orbit, he was free-falling, chasing the sharp crest of his orgasm while Yuta’s weight grounded him to earth—“Oh please, hyung, oh god—“ and for the first time, Mark wasn’t thinking about Johnny. Not his face, or the shape of his grin, or his phantom-kiss—just Yuta’s heartbeat on his tongue and the keen awareness of his own body, suspended in water, exactly where he was supposed to be.

### Mark Lee Is A Big Boy

“Yoooo,” was all Mark could say, awed, when Johnny showed him the concept deck for his next shoot. For Underdog's anniversary issue, Johnny was returning to his roots. Despite the lo-fi aesthetic that made him famous, Mark's best friend was a nerd at heart. This issue was all about dynamic, high-octane photography, with a dash of high fashion. _Real Heroes_. Mark liked the sound of that. And with Kang Seulgi in the mix, it was the biggest shoot Johnny’s ever had to plan for.

Mark was real proud of him; his chest hurt.

He took Johnny’s iPad with him and sat on his bed, swiping through the deck and making small affirmative noises here and there. Silent, Johnny hovered by the doorframe. “Yo,” Mark repeated. “This is it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, dude! Oh my jesus.”

“You’re cool with it, right?” Johnny said.

“I told you, dude, it’s amazing!” Mark said, and then Johnny was shaking his head.

“I mean,” he laughed, then looked away. “I was talking about Donghyuck. Me and Donghyuck.”

“Oh,” Mark said. The smile dropped from his face. “Yeah, man. ‘Course.”

“Really?”

Mark frowned. Johnny’s eyes were on him now, like some kind of potent voodoo magic. He swallowed. “Of course, dude. I’m—more than okay with it. You guys are—“ and then his throat closed up on its own accord, because he wasn’t going to cry, not here. He managed a weak laugh. “What’s this all about suddenly?”

“Nothing. I just thought. I don’t know. I didn’t like keeping secrets from you, so—I was gonna tell you properly. I swear. But it all just happened so fast.“ Johnny scratched his neck, where it had begun to pink; Mark’s fingers twitched. “We’re not going out in public yet. I mean, Donghyuck doesn’t really care if people find out, you know. It’s more like we don’t think our… relationship needs a public announcement, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“But you—you’re—“ there it was again, the kind of laugh Johnny made when he was feeling small. “I wanted to tell you properly. You deserve that much. Guess it was too late for that, but um—“

Mark shook his head. “No, I mean—yeah. But, I get it. I’m happy for you,” he said, and he was proud at the evenness of his voice. At the genuineness of it; even now, Johnny's happiness was infectious. Mark grinned at him, a double-edged shape. “You really like him, huh?”

“More than I should,” Johnny confessed. “You probably already know, but Lee Donghyuck’s not as nice as Lee Haechan. He’s an absolute menace. Really bad for my health.”

“Nah. Nah, I doubt it.”

“I’m glad.” Johnny scrubbed the back of his neck. “That you’re cool with it.”

“Yep,” Mark finished lamely. “Cool.” Cool, cool, cool, cool. Everything was cool. Mark was a big boy, he could hold it together, right? His best friend was in love, over-the-moon with it, his career a fast-growing cloud shadowing Mark’s pitiful patch of green, and Johnny deserved all of it. Even now, Johnny was a satellite gliding down a different orbit. “Anyway!” Mark said. “Aren’t you going to bed? It’s cool you’re not single anymore and all, but I don’t want to hear more about it. You guys terrorize me enough.”

Johnny moseyed into the side of his bed with a wicked grin. “We do it on purpose, you know?”

“Seriously.” Mark stood up instantly, blocking Johnny’s path to his desk, where his notebook was half-open. If only Johnny pushed past and chanced a look, he’d see it—the dark, messy contents of Mark’s heart and all its machinations. “You’ve got a big gig tomorrow morning. Dude, what are you doing!”

Johnny had dived in the middle of Mark’s bed. The pillows bounced. “Going to bed?”

“You have your own!”

“But your bed smells sooo nice.” Johnny’s hand smoothed down the wrinkled sheet. “Love that boy musk.”

Mark flushed. “Never say _boy musk_ again.” Then he planted his knee into the mattress, grabbed a pillow and started suffocating Johnny’s hundred-watt grin. They tussled for a bit: Johnny taking advantage of his unfair superhuman strength and stealing Mark’s pillow, pulling him down to suffocate him—Mark pretended to still, so Johnny pulled up the pillow quickly, until Mark started resuscitated himself and started the whole cycle again, until their limbs gave out and they were gasping and laughing, punch-drunk.

“When did you get so big and strong, huh?”

“Hyung, I’m serious,” Mark said, pushing up on his elbows. His heart was poking out his chest. “You need—“

Johnny was making a puppet face with his hand. “You know Mark, all I hear is this—“ puppet-Mark began obnoxiously talking. “But all I really wanna hear is this—” puppet-Mark clamped its mouth shut, then fainted against the pillows. “Lemme crash here? Like old times?”

Mark grabbed Johnny’s fist. “Jerk,” he said, then released his hold before Johnny could poke fun at their hand size difference again. “Do what you want.”

As he was getting up, Johnny pulled him down by the wrist.

“Hyung—“

“Stay.”

“I’m just gonna get—“ Mark tried to explain, but Johnny kept saying PSPSPSPS until Mark grew fed up and dug into the covers himself, resting his head on the pillow.

“There,” Mark groaned. “ _Now_ go to sleep?”

Johnny flicked the bedside lights on and made himself comfortable. “Much better.”

The minutes passed tortuously slow. Mark reached around blindly for his phone. Time check: 1 AM. Johnny’s breathing was shallow and far too quiet.

Mark called him out, “You’re not sleeping.”

Without opening his eyes, Johnny mumbled, “Sleep is for the weak. I’m here to win.”

Mark rolled his eyes. He knew Johnny like the inside of his own brain. The way his brow furrowed, the way he bit his lip and tossed as he slept—the Johnny-fueled organ in his cerebral system _ping-ping-pinged_ in warning. He grabbed the blanket that had pooled on Johnny’s waist and pulled it over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Mark whispered. “You’re okay. It’s gonna be great, dude. You worked hard for this. Everything’s gonna be perfect.”

“Perfect is overrated. Something _will_ happen. Murphy’s law, my dude.”

“Did I ask? Look, smart-ass—“ even in the dark, Mark could make out the wry quirk of Johnny’s lips, “if you try to sleep now, I’ll make pancakes in the morning.”

A beat passed. “With chocolate chips?”

Mark pinched his shoulder. “Of course. Got you big boy,” Mark said, and Johnny’s adam’s apple dipped. “Sleep now?”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Johnny said, but shut his eyes anyway.

Something heavy sat between them. _Hold it together, Mark Lee._

“Mark,” Johnny mumbled, after the minutes sailed past. “Markie.”

“What?” Mark snapped. At this rate, he was going to regurgitate his own heart. He opened his eyes, only to find that Johnny’s mouth had gone slack. He listened for it: the tell-tale signs of Johnny dreaming. For real now, Johnny was dead to the world.

See? Mark told himself. He was a big boy, he could hold it together. And so what if he woke up at around 3 am from the trapped heat of their bodies and found their limbs tangled like vines—Johnny’s face in his chest, his heavy arm slung around his waist like a fallen tree—he was proud for not losing it then and there. Mark was a big boy he could hold it together, hold it together, hold it together.

### Do You See Me?

Now that Yuta was aware of the true depths of Mark’s standing in life (read: sheltered, closeted, boring to boot), he was adamant Mark spend his Saturdays with the band, crashing bars in Mapo district, eating good street food in Itaewon, and funnelling even further down Gangnam’s endless rabbit hole. There were too many places to see. Seoul scintillated in a way Mark thought was only possible in a tourist flyer. Like this, he was ten times more a tourist than Yuta, and deep down, Mark knew Yuta wished someone did the same thing for him when he’d first arrived in Korea. Mark vowed to pay it forward one day.

He was getting a hang of it, too. On a good day, Seoul was a concrete labyrinth. Seeing the tracks Yuta made for himself in this harsh playground was making Mark fall just a little bit in love.

Tonight’s rendevous with Yuta and Jungwoo was a night club—“Baby’s first gay bar!” and Mark clamped a hand around Yuta’s mouth and threatened, “Shut up, no one can know I’m _loser_.” The bar in question was straddled by dripping neon lights and smoke tracks. Mark had been to clubs—mostly to third-wheel on Johnny’s dates while they danced and Mark nursed his Coke and rum—but not clubs like these. Everything here was charged differently. Jungwoo tugged him to the dance floor before he could chicken out, and then they were dancing—easy as that. Would you think of that.

“So many guys!” Mark observed, and that sent Jungwoo and Yuta into a frenzy of laughter. Dua Lipa was on the speakers as again, omnipresent as time bent itself. Light spilled, heady. Jungwoo grinded on Mark like a penguin would—cute, but with evil intentions. Mark pushed him off, laughing, until Yuta cupped his ass.

“Yuta,” Mark hissed nervously. Even as Yuta battled a laugh, his gaze remained focused.

“Yes?”

“Your hands are on my butt?”

“Would you rather I hold someone else’s butt?”

Mark considered this for a moment, circling each other as the bass turned the last few strands of his ego into mush, and, “No,” he decided, and then they were kissing, because they could. Yuta pressed a grin into his neck, and hot palms on Mark’s waist, as Doja Cat implored everyone to speak their truth. Yuta kissed him, and Mark kept letting him even when Jungwoo moaned, “Unfair!” and Mark almost slipped on his ass from the giddy way the world tilted.

“I need another drink!” he told Yuta, who winked and let him stumble back to the bar.

Downing a glass of water, he was about to order a cocktail when somebody pulled his ear.

Groaning, Mark turned. “Jungwoo-hyung—“

It was Donghyuck who was grinning at him. Mark choked on his own tongue.

“Can you believe it? I was scared of getting paparazzi here, but I bumped into Mark Lee, the one and only—” and even here, wearing a black cap and black leather jeans and a nondescript flowy top that hugged his waist, Donghyuck was still golden. “Never thought I’d find you here!”

“Hyuck,” Mark managed. An awful cloud passed through his chest, leaving him cold and clammy. Suddenly his mouth was lead. “Jesus—I—wow. Hey. I—is Johnny here?”

From the way Donghyuck frowned, that was somehow a stupid question. “ _Hey_ yourself. And contrary to popular belief, we’re not together all the time. I have a life too you know? Beyond being his fungal overgrowth.” Donghyuck pointed at the gyrating mass of bodies. “I’m here with some college friends. You know Renjun, right?”

“Yeah,” Mark lied. “Cool.”

“Anyway, what are you doing here?” Donghyuck asked cheekily, his gaze mirthful as it swept Mark up and down. “Johnny told me you were _straight_.”

Mark gaped at him. Donghyuck was still grinning.

“Well? Earth to Mark Lee. Oi—don’t die on me. Johnny’ll kill me.” As Mark forgot speech, Donghyuck’s smile vanished. “Mark?” And maybe he’d seen the panicked look on his face, because Donghyuck was grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him outside, away from the sex-fog and pheromones and hot disco lights minutes from a migraine, stepping into the hallway where the music fell away, the bass muffled into the carpet.

“I’m good—I’m sorry, I—“

“Breathe,” Donghyuck instructed, eyes wide as saucers. “There you go. You… good?”

“Yeah,” Mark lied.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I’m not.”

Donghyuck released his wrist, slumping back against the wall across Mark. He peeled his cap off and ran a hand through his dark hair with a frustrated sigh. “Look, Mark Lee,” Donghyuck began slowly. “I get it. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Johnny.” The grin was back, like it never left. “Pinky promise.”

Mark stared at the offered finger. “You think it's stupid.”

“Nah. I get it. I promise, I really do. It sucks, doesn’t it?” Donghyuck didn’t elucidate further.

Eventually, Mark nodded. “Yeah," he said. “Yeah, it does.”

Donghyuck smiled. Mark felt a strange sense of kinship now. Gratefulness, too—that it was Donghyuck who saw him tonight, not anyone else, even if the sight of him triggered his fight-or-flight instinct in ways he was still trying to piece apart.

Donghyuck extended his pinky out again, as if to say, _well, c’mon._ Sighing, Mark linked their fingers together, and Donghyuck’s face broke into a sunny smile. Something gave in his chest, softly.

“I’m just—” Mark paused. “I’ve known him for so long. I don’t know how to be— _this_ yet, in front of him. I told you—it’s stupid.” Mark’s face fell into his palms as he chuckled weakly. “He’s, like, literally dating another dude.”

 _Other dude_ nodded emphatically. “I get it. Really. And it’s not my place to tell you what I think, but for what it’s worth… Johnny really cares about you, okay? Probably always will, no matter what you decide to do in the future. Never seen anything like it. S’like brain damage.” Donghyuck made a face, and that startled a laugh out of Mark.

“Listen, Hyuck—“

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Lee,” Donghyuck continued. “Pinky promise, remember? We never saw each other tonight.” And he winked, pretended to zip his mouth and tuck the key into his pocket. He crossed the distance between them and slid his hand into Mark’s. It was warm. “And I have to say, it’s really good I bumped into you, because I was planning a super duper surprise party for Johnny’s birthday. Tell you all about it later. But can we please go back to _dancing_?”

### I Have Birds That Sing

Mad Dog was different as the summer rolled in; free from their institutional leashes, college kids came in hordes, and the season’s tightly-wrought anxiety had let itself go, like a slow leaking tire. Crowds danced as if to make up for lost time. Donghyuck himself hung around Johnny and Mark’s apartment more, now that he had no more obligations—and while Mark enjoyed the company of his two friends, he didn’t appreciate walking into their, uh, excursions. He didn’t appreciate that at all.

Mark let himself wander those days like a stray balloon—he crashed Yuta’s gigs, danced like a reckless thing, made out with Yuta in his car before slipping quietly into his apartment, tiptoeing past Johnny (and Donghyuck) sleeping in the bedroom. On good days, he performed covers. And maybe it was the anxiety of it—going stir-crazy from the heat and the liminality of it all—that he invited Yuta to his own apartment while Johnny and Donghyuck were out on a date.

Yuta had connected his phone to Mark’s speakers so they could listen to the set list tonight. He sat on their sofa, scrolling through his phone. Wordlessly, Mark pulled it out of his hands and slid into his lap, pouting.

“Was this what Dr. Frankenstein felt, when he created his monster,” Yuta wondered out loud, as Mark wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pressed lazy kisses down his jaw. “I’m flattered to take part in your, um, _sexual emancipation_ , but I really think you’re just using me to get inspiration for your next song.”

“Of course not! You know that’s not true.” Mark scowled. He tilted his head. “Well—only 60% true.”

“And the 40%?”

Mark tucked Yuta’s fringe behind his ear, as Yuta squeezed the top of his thighs. “I just really enjoy you, _oppa.”_ Yuta pinched his ear. Mark pressed their chests together. “Ah—haha—can we—?”

“Wow.” Yuta’s voice was gravel-dark against his ear. “I don’t have condoms.”

“We don’t have to—we can do it quickly? Last time you made me come in like, eight minutes,” Mark whined; he was high on it, the building ache of seeing Johnny’s pictures on the walls, Donghyuck’s shirt on the floor. This morning he found torn condoms inside the trash bin. Donghyuck didn't even hide how he was walking all funny. “C’mon, can we?”

Yuta sighed. Mark’s fingers stilled, before hesitantly pulling away.

“Sorry, I should’ve asked first before—hyung, I’m sorry—“ and then Yuta was pulling him back onto his lap.

“Stuuuupid,” Yuta said, in Japanese. “You know what that means right?”

Mark felt like a child suddenly, being manhandled on Yuta’s lap. He mumbled, "It's not like you call me that every day or anything."

“Good.” Yuta placed an open, careful kiss under his ear. “Good. ’Cause I was just thinking about how thin the walls are.” And then he hauled Mark up by the thighs, walking them towards the stereo playing something low and thrumming. With one hand, he turned the dial _all_ the way up.

“Holy shit,” Mark exclaimed, thighs flexing around Yuta’s waist as Yuta pushed him down on the couch—the song was _You Shook Me_ by Led Zeppelin, Taeil was going to be performing a cover of it tonight—and Mark laughed, panicked. “I’m never gonna to be able to look at Taeil in the face. Oh my _Jesus_.”

“What do you mean?” Yuta said, all faux innocence. He was already a wet dream, but something about Yuta and classic rock brought something visceral inside him to the surface; in his face, Mark saw a shadow of Donghyuck’s feral grin. He shook it off, accepting Yuta’s kiss with abandon when it came.

It was Pavlovian now, the way Yuta’s grin quirked, the slanted one that showed his canines and promised gasoline and other dark haunted things; Mark was in the deep end already.

“It’s like your first time,” Yuta commented, and when Mark hid his face in his neck. He tugged him by the hair and frowned, “No—no, it’s good. That you can feel so much. Not everyone responds to sex like this all the time.” Yuta licked the prominent vein in Mark’s neck, a much welcome distraction before Mark could go off tangent about how he’d lost his teenage years to homophobia and falling in love with the best friend he thought was straight.

It was unfair; Yuta fucked like he played music. Which was to say, really not half-bad. Mark could write sonnets about Yuta's tight, pretty mouth.

“What happened here?” Yuta asked as they pulled apart from the kiss. His fingers stilled on Mark’s fringe.

“Hm?” Mark had to shake the fog from his brain. “Oh, that—? Hit my head. When I was 12, I think.”

“It’s cute,” Yuta remarked, tilting his chin to get a closer look. “Shaped like a triangle.”

“That’s what Johnny says.”

Yuta hummed. Rough hands found his hip, rucking his shirt up, feeling each bump and bone. It was like being loved by an overgrown cat.

Yuta found his birth scar. “This?”

“Born with it.”

His fingers travelled lower, tracing the hair below his navel. Yuta pressed his thumb into a blue bruise just under his hipbone. “And this?”

“That’s all you, bastard,” Mark gasped, stilling Yuta’s hand. “Ah—ow! Stop teasing, please.”

“For someone so strong, you bruise too easy, Mark Lee.”

Mark blurted, “I think Donghyuck got a vibrator.”

“Oh?” Yuta looked up. Mark’s eyes were glazed over. “Heard it buzzin. _Ah_ —heard them—heard them using it—“

“Didn’t strike me as a creep, Mark Lee—“

“Not a creep!” Mark said, bucking into Yuta’s touch. “Can’t help it—so fucking _loud_ —“

Without warning, Yuta pressed his whole weight into the open V of Mark's legs.  
  
“I need you to stop talking for a sec,” Yuta said, tapping two fingers against Mark’s bottom lip, seeking permission—those same long, pretty fingers he’d used to open Mark up last night. “No talking. Can you do that?”

In answer, Mark’s lips opened eagerly, accepting them into the heat of his mouth.

Yuta’s mouth fell into a loose grin. “Good. We have to be quick. Can’t have Johnny and Haechannie catching us like this, right?”

Mark shook his head, shuddering to his core. As Yuta pulled his fingers out and trailed his hand into Mark’s boxers, Mark said, “Hold me down, yeah?” and Yuta grinned. Yuta always did him good. As Yuta coaxed him from the inside, the sound it made almost profane in the air, Mark turned his burning face to the side and bit into the pillow—the one Johnny used to prop his elbows up when he watched those awful cooking shows—and let his mind unspool as his drool darkened the cover. And when Yuta’s fingers slowed, Mark gripped his wrist and pushed his hips up harshly, insistently, Yuta muttering, “You’re gonna break my fucking hand,” and “Chihiro, Chihiro, you’re too fucking pretty for your own good, you know?” and over the sinking bass line Mark came, and within seconds he’d rolled out from under Yuta’s body, heart racing, tripping over Donghyuck’s old shirt and Yuta’s phone, apologizing—“Hyung, sorry, let me just get this idea down—"

"Wh—"

He shimmied his boxers up. "Just one sec, I'll be right back, I prom—"

And Yuta and his stupefied face shifted from shock to absolute pissed-the-fuck-off, yelling, “Get your little ass back up here, Mark Lee, _are you fucking kidding me_ —“

### Throw Me A Bone

The line on Johnny’s forehead seemed to melt as Mark stepped gingerly into their apartment on a Sunday morning. Before that, Mark had hoped its occupants were fast asleep; he just needed to get some clothes. The plan was to drive and go. He’d turned the key softly and tiptoed in, peering around the door—and found Johnny and Donghyuck sitting around the table, head bent together in a quiet discussion.

“Well, what do you know—it’s Mark Lee!” Johnny cried, his face turning sunny. In his pajamas, he made grabby hands for Mark.

Mark felt exposed, suddenly; he wished he’d brushed his hair, changed into a fresh shirt. There was a crick in his neck after he blacked out on Yuta’s lumpy couch.

“Oiiii,” Mark greeted.

It was suddenly too quiet in the room. Donghyuck had de-materialized the moment Mark arrived, announcing: “I need to take a _really_ big shit,” and poofing, leaving Johnny and Mark staring at each other across the room. Looked like Donghyuck cooked something yummy again. A third plate was there.

“Donghyuck’s play,” Johnny was saying, as Mark slipped off his shoes and arranged them next to Donghyuck’s pink converses. “You’re coming right?”

“Sure,” Mark said, not paying attention.

Johnny’s gaze followed his back. “You don’t come by anymore,” he heard Johnny say. Mark turned to see him fake pouting. “But that's unfair. Before that—I wanted to say sorry. I keep missing your gigs, man. I promise I don’t mean it."

“Nah, dude.” Mark waved him off. “I’m sorry I can't hang out with you and Hyuck much.” Not a total lie, at least. “Yuta’s been keeping me busy.” Or that.

Johnny hummed, pouring Mark a cup of coffee, then spooning two heaps of creamer into them, just like Mark liked it. “Yuta's cool?” Johnny asked, and Mark paused as he settled into Donghyuck’s empty seat; it was strange, having to explain things to Johnny. That there was a part of him they had not shared. Right away, Mark wanted to fix that.

“Yeah, he’s—“ Mark cut himself off. He couldn’t find the words. How to explain this incredible new terrain Yuta had brought into his life? “Yeah, Yuta’s cool.”

Johnny broke into a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Mark sipped his coffee and mirrored the smile. “If you can’t tell, I’m leeching off his awesomeness as much as I can before he realizes he’s adopted a total loser. I think he’ll get a rude awakening soon enough.”

“Good,” Johnny said. “Tell him you were my loser first.”

“I’ll… take that as a compliment.”

Johnny laughed; suddenly it was difficult to look him directly in the face. As a diversion, Mark sipped his caffeine. Johnny continued, “Hey, I was thinking, since my birthday’s coming up tomorrow, instead of facing another day of pure existential dread, I _really_ wanna go for another long drive. Like, tonight.” He paused, for dramatic effect, to let the sentence breathe. “You know—just you, me, the road—real cowboys. Like old times, you know?”

"What about Donghyuck?"

"He can come if he wants, but it's been a while since it's been just you and me, you know?" Johnny scratched his head. " _Too_ long."

Mark swallowed, gaze falling away. His hand flexed. “That’d be nice.”

“But?” Johnny cocked his head. “I’m hearing a _but_ in there…”

Eventually, he followed the direction of Mark’s eyes and got the gist; his mouth dropped open.

“Did somebody say _birthday_?” came Donghyuck’s voice—then Donghyuck himself, his tiny party hat peeking out the corner as he entered, two party poppers in each raised fist. His face was pinched as he blew on a pink party horn, which made a tiny, aborted sound. "Birthday ambush?"

“Oh my god,” Johnny said.

### Siri Play Chicago by Sufjian Stevens

 _Follow the river_. That was what his pastor said; _stop trying too hard. Follow the river, let the tide take you home_. Mark lived that to the hilt: he liked winning, bu:t didn't mind losing sometimes. He liked games, but wouldn’t call himself _competitive_. He was a hard worker, but would never say he’d ever broken his back for anything. But Mark wasn’t very good at being number two, when it came to Johnny: he let Tracy beat him in third grade spelling bee, let his cousin Mina steal a slice of his own birthday cake right from his plate, but being second in Johnny’s eyes was something his thirteen year-old brain couldn’t process. It was—incalculable.

In his sick, love-addled pre-pubescent brain, the start of his life would've gone like this: Mark would give Johnny the mixtape, who’d listen to it, and instantly be awakened, like Aurora from her deathlike sleep, coming to see just what he’d missed out on on all these years—and Johnny would hold Mark’s sweaty hand and maybe they’d kiss, sweetly, their eyes closed. Johnny would tuck Mark in his car and drive away from all of this, watch a thousand sunsets together and maybe do all those nasty, secret things couples got to do in the movies. Of course, nothing of the sort happened. Instead, there was this:

“What’s this? For me?” Johnny said, as Mark fed his arm through the passenger car window and all but shoved the CD under Johnny’s nose. In the backseat, Johnny’s new upper echelon friends snickered. They weren’t part of the plan, but it was now or never right? Tomorrow, Johnny would be leaving him for college—and who knows where next after? Johnny never did well with moorings; there was always somewhere better to be.

“A mixtape? Uh, wow. That’s kinda—” Johnny’s friend said, sniggering. “Look, I’m not gonna say it.”

Johnny’s smile was Mark’s favorite, but right now the sight of it hit him like a poison dart. Cold crept into his lungs. Years later, he’d understand—this was just survival, just Johnny trying not to get eaten alive—but as Mark was watched his best friend laugh and tuck the mixtape into his backpack without sparing it another glance, ruffling Mark’s hair and dropping a brief, _see you tomorrow, okay?_ he felt betrayal of the purest and most lethal kind.

 _Look back,_ Mark thought, fists clenched as the window rolled down, the car leaving the curb. _Coward_. _Look back_. But Johnny just kept laughing at his friend's stupid joke, riding the river towards his future.

### Self-Destructing in 3, 2, 1—

It was funny how long Johnny tried to fake nonchalance. They took an Uber to the bar (they were _all_ getting wasted tonight), some fancy shmancy French fusion resto-bar called Aristocrat so blindingly elite only Donghyuck’s connection would’ve allowed them a booking, and by then it was obvious something was up. Still, Johnny remained stony-faced to the end, talking about the weather and listening to Donghyuck debate the global rise of TikTok. It was only when they were walking up the long driveway that led to the entrance and found Sehun and Xiumin outside, freezing in place—that he shut up.

“Uh, wow, what a coincidence,” Sehun tried.

“You were supposed to go in from the baaaack!” Donghyuck moaned.

Johnny was gaping. “No fucking way.”

Still, the plan was in place. Artistocrat was buzzing, like a treasure box filled with everyone and everything Johnny loved: cake and fruit cocktails and Doyoung and Jaehyun and Yeri and Irene. And Donghyuck, of course, who fit his side handsomely.

“You guys drink right?” Donghyuck asked them. He’d pushed open the doors to a private lounge in the third floor balcony, with an open bar and neon-lit pool, bass rippling the surface. Johnny’s mouth fell open—and because he was a gentlemen—promptly closed it himself.

“Course I _drink-drink_. What do you take me for? Mark?” he said, rolling his eyes. Mark squawked, but let him have this; for all his accolades, Mark knew this was the best birthday party Johnny had ever received. He deserved to have a little fun. For a social creature, this was probably paradise.

The National Geographic subscription Mark got for Johnny felt cheap and almost embarrassing now. He’d need a do-over.

“Donghyuck, I—“ For once, Johnny dropped the theatrics. Other people piled in, chanting for the _birthday boy_ over the speakers, but Johnny kept his eyes on them, something unreadable on his face. “Thanks. Really.”

“I heard you were missing a lot of people, since you’re so booked and busy all the time. I wanted to give you a night where they were all in one place.” Donghyuck tucked his chin on Mark’s shoulder, slinging an arm around his shoulder lazily. “I just _knew_ you were famous way before the Internet! And look, losing people because of work sucks—take it from me. Don't let them go. And thank Mark for helping me with the guest list."

Now Johnny’s fullest smile descended on him, full of tender, honest things Mark didn’t want to deal with yet—so he shrugged off Donghyuck’s arm and bumped Johnny on the shoulder instead.

“What are you waiting for?” Mark said. “Go and enjoy your fucking party, birthday boy.”

Johnny did.

He danced, did shots, bumped chests with Sehun like a stupid fraternity boy and showed off his intricate handshake with Donghyuck. Mark had seen the moment Johnny turned around and looked for him, but by then he’d already gone, wandering over to Renjun’s table for some sensible fun. Without warning the air broke with loud cheering, and when Mark looked up, there was Johnny and Donghyuck—making out on top of the billiard table.

Mark cursed; they were probably too far gone already, down on too many cocktails. He scanned the room quickly for the telltale DSLRs or even a phone tracked to steal this moment—then abruptly caught himself. Only Johnny’s friends here. And Johnny's friends were good and cool and happy for him. Johnny’s friends were all busy drinking their brains out too, not ogling the way he kissed his own boyfriend like a fucking _creep_. Mark couldn’t help it; Johnny’s hand snared Donghyuck’s wrist, while Donghyuck kept them moving—mouths, chests, hips. People cheered. Alcohol spilled, sticky and gold. A body catapulted into the pool.

Somebody’s head blocked Mark’s view, so he moved around them, heart thundering along to a bass-boosted rendition of Charli XCX’s whole EP. When he caught sight of them again, Donghyuck had pushed Johnny against a pillar, trapping his hands behind him. Mark’s own heart was a remix—spliced, butterflied, and blendered—and now he thought maybe it was a good idea for his brain to keep up.

He chugged the first cocktail he saw.

It was like a game. He camped at the open bar and craned his neck up to find them kissing. If Johnny smiled at Donghuck, Mark would take a sip, and each time they touched, a full shot. He was going mad; Mark couldn’t stop watching them, like if he stared enough they’d turn to see him watching— _then_ what? Or if he shut his eyes it would be like those nights Donghyuck spent the night, the sound of them fucking through the walls—Donghyuck’s soft moans, Johnny probably holding him up against the wall. But they kept on, oblivious to the chaos. _Fine_ , Mark thought. _Fine_.

He was going to storm off when someone grabbed his arm. “Hey, I’m Johnny’s friend,” slurred the girl, balancing a dripping margarita in her hand; he’d never seen her face in his life. “You’re his assistant, right? I see you— _hic_ —during some of his shoots. You’re his assistant, right?”

“Yeah,” Mark said, without blinking. “Actually—I am his assistant.” And then he swiped her awful slurry from her hand and downed it. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she offered him her friend’s drink, for seconds.

“Maybe we could do a collab,” and then she was showing off her nine thousand followers on Instagram, gushing about how Johnny would make her big, like _real_ big. That she was the real thing. “Like, I know everybody says that, but it’s like, for real this time. Whaddya say, baby? Make it happen for me?”

She was squeezing his bicep. “I mean, why not,” Mark half-yelled; control over his volume was the first thing he lost. “Johnny Suh’s oh humble assistant, at your service!”

The girls giggled, then passed around their calling cards; Mark tucked them all his pants like a bad messiah and bowed, feeling like he’d dropped his own skin somewhere. All of a sudden, it was too hot.

He looked up, trying to see Johnny, but the ceiling spun. His arms flew out to steady him, and he clutched at the wall as the lights swayed around him like a wild pendulum. “Markie, come join us!” he heard someone say—Jaehyun?—but he needed to get some air.

“And what can I do for you?” Mark said, bumping into an old man. Until several beats later he realized _old man_ was on a bottle. Mark’s thirst was unspeakable; he reached for the bottle and downed the thing, too, until he choked on the burn and staggered outside, winded.

Prickling-cold air dug its nails into him. He pushed his bangs back, then realized he couldn’t feel his hands. He pulled out his phone, stared at Johnny’s number for one long moment before dialling up the next person.

“Hyung?”

“ _Chihiro_.” He could hear the smirk die. “ _Mark? Everything okay?_ ”

“It’s—” Too hot and too cold, all at the same time. “Kinda—spinny—“ by the time he was in free-fall, it was too late to realize he’d exited out the backdoor, where a metal staircase glinted in the dark. Stumbling down the steps shoulder first, he careened towards the bottom rung and barely felt anything. It was a good thing his hands were so clamped up, his phone stayed intact in his grip. And he fell on his _butt,_ too; what the hell, he could make it in the circus at this rate. An unruly laugh left him.

“— _ppening? Are you okay? Mark?_ ”

“Ow,” Mark giggled, pushing up to his knees; the sky was really pretty. “Look, the sky’s really pretty, hyung.”

“ _Where are you?_ ” A door shut somewhere, the crashing cymbals receding. “ _Are you with Johnny—no, don’t move. I’m getting you_.”

“Really cold,” Mark mumbled, and then added, “Johnny’s not here,” so softly Yuta might’ve not heard it. So he began to sing Happy Birthday. Yuta cursed.

“ _Don’t fucking move, okay_?” Yuta said. “ _Give me—fuck—fifteen minutes. Don’t talk to strangers, don’t enter anyone’s car. And don’t drink anything else. Jesus, Mark_.”  
  
Stumbling on his feet, Mark turned around and watched the Aristocrat pulse and flicker—Johnny’s future and everyone he loved inside, haloed like something blessed—and he turned around, headed towards the dark end of the path, ghosts lining the road to nowhere.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone who read and left their love in the previous chapter! i... definitely did not expect this to be as long, but here it is,,.. take it from me hhh
> 
> just a warning, this chapter contains: uncomfortable hookups, mentions of racism, and violence/blood. 
> 
> enjoy!

### A Spectacular Return to Form, Part One

Mark could count on one hand the number of times he’d witnessed Johnny actually get mad—the _real_ kind, not the faux anger he carried whenever they play-fought or disagreed over something paltry, like who Naruto deserved to marry (not Hinata, but that was a discussion for another time). Johnny held anger loosely, oil on water; he had no affinity for it. 

Back in their suburban Chicago neighbourhood, he barely twitched when some white fool stole his skateboard and spray-painted it with the hammer and sickle: “If you’re gonna be racist, at least do it right, you know? This is just _sad_.” And even when MCR broke up for _real-real_ , or that Saturday afternoon that Mark, chased by a droopy basset hound, trampled Mama Seo’s favorite hydrangeas as he ran yelling for his life all the way into Johnny’s front porch and kept mum as Johnny took the blame for it, bearing the brunt of all her verbal fire—there was no trace of fury on his face. Not even a hint of it. 

And of course there wasn’t. This was _Johnny,_ after all _,_ the pride of Asian immigrant mothers everywhere, even if he wasn’t theirs; one look and you knew he came out the womb grinning, then raised to be textbook-perfect and un-rowdy as they came. The art of forgiving—or was it forgetfulness? He’d practically perfected it at fourteen.

But that summer shifted something, like a petri dish where all chaotic things were born. The only reason Mark still remembered was because Johnny himself refused to forget. _Did that_ really _happen?_ Mark had asked, because it was ridiculous; and always, Johnny would unravel the entire narrative down to its most tattered string: _You were ten. You still had those black square rimmed glasses, with the double lenses_ — _remember? I think it happened on a Friday. Our neighbors were blasting the Bee Gees. You never cried._

Mark didn’t cry, but Johnny did—silent, furious tears—but those were _details, details_ , Johnny would always say, shrugging it off. Mark himself remembered that afternoon only in pieces; on the way home, he'd been counting mailboxes. One, two, three. On their block, Johnny owned the tenth. He was on the sixth when Andrew, the same petty white kid who seemed perpetually appalled by Johnny’s continued existence, reached into the bottom of his pet lizard’s aquarium, grabbed a rounded white stone, ran up to his window—and flung it at an oblivious Mark Lee’s head.

When asked, Andrew would explain, _I wanted to make sure they weren’t robots;_ his mother too, would profess his innocence: that he didn’t mean it, didn’t see the poor Korean kid standing there like a blight outside their house, and what was he doing out there anyway, in spaces he didn’t belong? Mark couldn’t answer. Living in that moment, there was no room for anything else; not fear, or outrage, or even the rustle of his own breath as his body pushed all thoughts out. By the time Mark returned to himself, he was staring at his own dark on the asphalt, after the pavement opened his knees and palms when he caught his fall. Three feet away was the stone, the size of his thumb. He picked it up. The world tilted dangerously. Mark trip-walked down the street, and resumed counting—seven, eight—

Ten: There was Johnny, practicing flips around the cul-de-sac on his tagged skateboard, and by the time he finally noticed Mark standing there the wound on his head had drenched the side of his face, staining the collar of his favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt, and something foreign crept into Johnny’s face; the smile there grew cold then died. Wordlessly, he pulled off the flannel tied around his waist, pressed it into Mark’s forehead to staunch the bleeding, then sat him on the sidewalk, gently framing the globes of his scraped up knees.

 _Hyung, you alright?_ Mark peered up at him. Johnny’s hands were shaking.

This part, Mark remembered, at least: Johnny plucking the stone from Mark’s clamped up fist. Johnny turning slowly down the other end of the street. Slow, measured steps. Their destination assured. His discarded skateboard, like an afterthought by Mark’s feet. An eternity later, when Johnny was far enough Mark had to squint, he rang the doorbell once on the gate, then twice, then thrice—until Andrew poked his head out his window, saw Johnny standing outside, and immediately went back into hiding.

Then Johnny began climbing the gate. 

When he reached the top, he jumped on the other side feet first and disappeared into the garden—or a black hole, for all Mark knew, really. What happened next he could only imagine, but Mark would bet on it being pretty horrifying, from the way Andrew screamed for his mother after.

Later, when questioned, Johnny would explain calmly: _I was just returning what he dropped_. Kind, model student Johnny, who never raised his voice, who hunched his shoulders in public when he started growing faster than all his peers. That summer saw the kind of patience the Seos and the Lees harbored boiling over, until they packed a decade of things into boxes, spat on the pavement on their last day, and drove to the airport, never looking back—and even weeks back in the motherland, several oceans away, Johnny was still fuming, jaw clenched and stony like a silent god.

He’d only thawed when Mark came around. In those days, when Seoul still felt like an ill-fitting hand-me-down sweater, he let Mark tuck his head against his neck, his own fingers finding the ugly, healing welt on Mark’s forehead. _We’re not the bad guys_ , Johnny begged him to remember. _No matter what they say. We’re—you’re not the bad guy._

He was still doing it years later: familiar fingers sweeping Mark’s bangs back. Tracing the raised skin there, a question on its own: _Hurts?_

 _It’s been years, hyung._ Still, Mark would feel them each time; the weight of all that history, groaning between them like old bones. _Look what I’d do for you._ _Look what I’d hoard;_ _enough fury to last a lifetime_. Mark thought that had been the end of it, Johnny’s ancient, quiet anger. Until now:

“I know you’re awake,” came the voice. 

The sound of it skipped a stone into the first layer of sleep; before that Mark had been floating in a fitful dream, and now he’d jolted, fully alert. He winced at the sharp sourness in his mouth as he opened his eyes. Yuta’s place had always been a source of comfort, but the sight of his posters all over the ceiling made his stomach churn. The itchy cover under his cheek, the smell of wet piping everywhere _—_ Mark felt out of place.

Somewhere beside him, Johnny laughed under his breath. “ _Fuck_ , Mark."

Mark turned and pushed himself upright. Each movement sent a new stab through his brain. He swept the room quickly with bleary eyes, croaked, “Where’s Yuta?”

“Outside. Resting.” Johnny’s right hand flexed on the chair he was sitting. “I think he deserves it. You know, after watching over you all night in the hospital.”

A pause of blissful nothing—and then the flood: A pair of cold, strange hands. Yuta’s panicked cursing. A light shined into his eyes. His own skin, floundering in the flytrap.

It frightened him to death, but Mark took a good look at Johnny, and his hands turned clammy instantly. It was dark under Johnny’s eyes, like he’d been standing in the cold for days. He was still wearing the same ensemble from last night’s party. His _birthday_ party.

“Fuck,” Mark said, the word wrenched from him. His gaze dropped to where an IV drip snaked past the sheets and disappeared in the inside of his elbow, wrapped in gauze. 

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “ _Fuck_.”

“Hyung,” Mark tried.

“You disappeared. I looked _all_ _over_ for you, Mark. Then I found your phone lying on the fucking _street_. No wonder you weren't answering any of my calls. Drove around the block for hours, but nobody had seen you, nobody—“

“Yuta found me,” he mumbled. 

“Figured that out, eventually, thank you very much.” Johnny’s full fury was just beyond the surface now, rippling through everything like a warning. His mouth shunted into a bitter line. “What’s happening, Mark? Jaehyun said he saw you drinking like a madman. You never drink to this point. You never drink, _period_.”

“It was a party,” Mark said, suddenly irritated. “Of course I drank, what’s the issue?”

“Are you... being serious?”

“What? I’m sorry, I drank too much, hyung, it’s whatever.” He shook his bangs out, clumpy with oil. “It’s like you’ve never been to a college party. This is nothing.”

Johnny looked at him with wide eyes. “Are you hearing yourself right now?”

Johnny’s mood was contagious; with each second the image of what brought him here in the first place returned to him at knifepoint: Johnny and Donghyuck’s tangled hands, neon haloed around them. Mark spat, “Dude, seriously, you’re treating me like a kid. Can’t a guy have fun every now and then? _You_ definitely seemed to be.” Some lucid part of him knew that was an unfair, but he was running out of options; he didn’t want to look at Johnny anymore. A compromise, then: “Okay, look… I’m sorry, alright?”

Johnny was nodding. Something turned sour in the air. “Just like that, huh?”

“Look, I’m _sorry_ for inconveniencing you—“

“Incon—“ Finally, Johnny’s face broke open. “You have—no idea don’t you? Why are you being like this?”

“I don't know, like what?”

“Like an _asshole._ Drinking yourself stupid, then passing out in the middle of the road, and just—just _disappearing_. What’s happening? Why—why didn’t you call me?”

“Didn’t wanna ruin your amazing birthday,” Mark mumbled—the last ingredient before the air changed unalterably.

“What kind of amazing birthday do you think it was,” Johnny boomed, “to spend the night in the fucking _emergency room_ thinking _my best friend possibly got fucking roofied_.”

Outside, he heard the floorboards groan; Yuta, maybe, retreating to a safer corner. The remnants of Johnny’s voice clung to the air like tinnitus, rattling the questions in Mark’s head until all the pieces slotted into place: the bone-deep weariness on his back. The fog in his brain. That stranger’s awful margarita that seemed to clot his own breath, made him mistake his feet for hands.

“They told me if you'd passed out anywhere else—I'm not even gonna say it,” Johnny said. “And if Yuta didn’t find you in time? What then? Explain to me, how this is ‘ _whatever_.’ _Fuck_.” He looked away, running a hand savagely into his hair. “Mark, this is— _impossible._ I hate when you get like this.”

Mark swallowed. His fists white-knuckled into the sheets. “Then leave.” 

“What?”

“If I’m so impossible, why don’t you go run back to Donghyuck?” Mark said, choosing instead to drag his hands through the wreck; he met Johnny’s glare, and his own mouth ran away from him. “Don’t you have much more important things to do? I don’t know, like fucking him or something?”

Johnny blinked. Outside, the floorboards groaned again. Mark’s own breathing was loud in his ears. Slowly, Johnny touched his jaw, then ran a palm over his face. The fury was gone, now replaced by distant weariness. When Johnny straightened out of his seat, it was a stranger standing in Yuta's room.

“You know, Mark, if you wanted me out of your life so badly, you could've just said so,” Johnny told him slowly. “Don’t worry, I won’t meddle again. You have the apartment all to yourself for now. It’s yours—thrash it, do whatever big boys do, that seems to be a big theme here. But don’t ever—don’t talk about Donghyuck like that. He’s your friend, too.”

And then he was gone. The door shut behind him. The chair was empty, but now the air was full and heavy, bristling like a damnation. 

Slowly, Mark went back to bed. He turned his face into the pillow, counted to ten, and then buried a scream there.

### A Spectacular Return to Form, Part Two

Mad Dog looked far less impressive from the outside, especially past 11 PM when the sidewalk was dusted with cigarette butts, and beer cans littered the surface of its red monoblock tables. Yuta found him off to the side, kicking crumpled cans into the fence. Even here, the muffled notes of the bass shook the small stones outside, like a constant pulse. Mark aimed at the open trash bin, striking from his heel—when Yuta materialized to intercept the can with his knee, a leftover reflex from a childhood spent in football summer classes.

“Nice pass,” Yuta whistled. Mark grinned, but there was nothing real in it; he hooked his fingers in the fence’s metal net and sighed.

Yuta’s arms slid around him, like an embrace. When Mark didn’t push him off, he slowly pulled away.

Mark said, “Hyung, I’m—” 

“Thinking. Yeah, I can see that,” Yuta replied, leaning back against the fence and crossing his arms. There were tiny braids in his red mane, courtesy of Taeil and Jungwoo; Yuta wanted to keep it in the name of friendship, even Mark’s aborted half-attempt near his right ear. Yuta said, “Could hear you _thinking_ all the way inside. Care to share it to the class?”

Mark bit his lip—afraid that saying it out loud would grant them permission, and if he crawled back home to his apartment tonight Johnny wouldn’t be there again. It had been days. Johnny should’ve been back by now; he forgot to pack his toothbrush. Then again, he must’ve kept a spare in Donghyuck’s apartment anyway.

Mark pulled at his hair. The trapped, congealing feeling from that night was back; if he shut his eyes his limbs were caught again, flailing in some imagined snare.

“I think I may have fucked up,” Mark said. “Like—real bad.”

Yuta regarded his own shoe. “Yeah, I’d say getting hospitalized on the night of your best friend’s supposed birthday party counts.” Mark flinched, and Yuta caught it, eyes flashing. “Oh—? Still raw?”

“Hyung,” Mark warned. Inside, a singer wailed a wail to wake the dead. The note raised the hair on his forearms. “I said I was sorry.”

“You vomited all over my dashboard.”

“I know! I’m sorry!”

“Do you even know what you’re really sorry for?” Yuta said, his lips pursed. “Do you? I promise I’ll be your guy if you wanna get really trashed. I’ll even hold your hair up while you make a mess on the toilet bowl if you want—but not like that. Okay? Not like that. Don’t do that to me again, Mark Lee.”

Mark’s lip trembled. “I won't.”

"Don't go running off accepting drinks from strangers, or supposed friends of Johnny—and yes, _even_ if the drink looks pretty—"

“I won't, I promise.”

“ _And_ you owe me dinner. Dinner first, and _then_ I'll get mad at you properly,” Yuta demanded, but unfurled his arms and tapped his chest. Hesitantly, Mark stepped into his embrace and breathed in Yuta’s forgiveness. 

“Okay.”

“Woo got coupons to this really fancy hamburg steak place. It’s their soft opening this week and apparently their steak tastes so fucking good, your brain turns to mush instantly. Something about the sauce. I swear there’s something else in it.”

“Sure, hyung.”

“You’re not finished! I want dessert too, after.” There was a pause. “I meant literal dessert, by the way. Though—“

“Hyung,” Mark mumbled miserably into Yuta’s shoulder. His hand wound its way up Yuta’s elbow and squeezed, desperate for grounding. “He _hates_ me.” 

Slowly, Yuta peeled them apart. He regarded Mark evenly.

“Stupid.” Yuta flicked his ear, then pulled it just enough so that Mark’s head tilted. “And what if he does? He can’t hate you forever. Just hit him with those puppy eyes, he won’t be able to resist—“

Mark grabbed Yuta’s wrist. “I’m serious.”

Yuta relented, a sigh rushing out his nose. “So am I. And I’m telling you—let him! He can’t hate you forever.”

“Yeah he can.” Mark remembered Chicago, his opened knees. The curse of Johnny’s silent, unbridled anger, following them all the way to Seoul like Peter Pan’s stubborn shadow. “You don’t know Johnny. He’s like an elephant. He never forgets. And I’m so—I’m seriously so fucking stupid. Why did I do that? He’ll never forget this.”

Mark felt himself spiralling again. He gripped his own wrist, feeling it tremor.

“Then apologize,” Yuta said flatly.

“I—can’t.”

Yuta sounded incredulous. “Why not?”

“Because,” Mark tried. Suddenly the bar’s doors opened, and out staggered a poor man who dashed for the closest bush, where he began retching enthusiastically; the sound made Mark flinch. “Because! I might as well tell him that I—that I—“

“And would that be too bad?”

Mark spluttered. “W-would that be too bad? What do you mean would that be _too bad_ ? Might as well shoot my own foot, say, ‘hey hyung, I know you have a boyfriend and all, and this will probably destroy our friendship and nothing will ever be the same again, but by the way, I’ve loved you since I was, like, ten’—and I _can’t_. Yuta, I can’t.”

Yuta levelled him with an unimpressed stare. “Wanna know what I think? I think you’re being dramatic and stupid and—“

“Seriously, you don’t get it,” Mark said. “This isn’t a—a— _game_ , hyung. There’s no do-over after that. To me, Johnny's—“ He swallowed it down, because even now the words were too formidable; this colossal home-grown hurt. “It’s not a game. This is how it was always meant to be, anyway, like—! I just need to get things back to how they were, you know. To last week, before—well, everything!—we’ll be okay.”

Yuta’s face twisted into a scowl. His shoe traced a line into the gravel. “Yeaaaah, no.”

“What do you mean, _no_?”

“Maybe for them. But what about you?” Mark shifted away from Yuta’s accusing eyes. “What about you, Mark? Will you be okay, really?”

“I'll learn to,” Mark said eventually. Thought: _Johnny was always meant for bigger, shinier things, and that was okay._ “If you knew him like I did, you’d know—it’s just right. You know? He’s happy. Seriously. And there’s nothing he has right now that he didn’t work hard for either. A lot of people said—they said Johnny wouldn’t make it, when he started his whole photography thing. Even his dad, you know? Maybe me too, just a little bit. But look at him now. Just proving everyone wrong.” Mark laughed softly, craning his head up to see the sickle-moon grinning back at him. “Just look at him—getting booked each day, getting real gigs, dating _Lee fucking Haechan._ Me? I’m still here, still stuck playing small-town gigs with—“

“With who?”

Mark came crashing back down. Yuta was tilting his head, almost catlike as he watched him.

“Who, Markie?” Yuta repeated.

“Yuta—“ His tongue shrank in his throat. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Some fuck-around cover band nobody cares about, right? That what you meant to say? Still stuck with me?” Yuta clucked his tongue. He pressed his hand to his chest. “Damn, Mark. I’m really sorry about that. What a real fucking bummer.”

Mark stepped forward; the chest felt paper-thin. “Yuta, you know that wasn’t—you weren’t—“

“—supposed to know? Nah, I get it. Really, I do.” Yuta stretched out a crick in his neck. “I know all your secrets, Mark Lee.”

“Jesus, dude, will you _listen_ —“

“Just so we’re even—wanna know _my_ secret?” Yuta grinned at him. The shape was a severe gash. “You’re _my_ best friend.” He paused, like if he was behind his own drum set right now he would’ve gifted Mark with a little _BA DUM TSS,_ resounding with a crowd's scripted laughter. “Isn’t that fucking funny?” 

Yuta was still grinning.

“Fuck.” Mark’s fists curled, twitching against his sides. His eyes watered as Yuta turned his back. “Hyung, _wait—_ ”

There was a loud crunch as Yuta stepped on another stray beer can. Without warning, he kicked it hard into the fence. He was only three steps away, but when he turned around to wave he was already miles out of reach.

“Get home safe, yeah?” Yuta called out, all fake cheer. “Gotta head back for my small-town gig, you know.” Then he walked back inside the club, hands in his pockets, and vanished to an encore of crashing cymbals. The sound was swallowed as soon as the door shut.

 _You’re not the bad guy_ , phantom-Johnny was saying in his ear, and Mark thought back fiercely, _you’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong, you're wrong—_

### Jjigae Soup For The Soul

Mark could feel himself becoming thoroughly unlikeable by the minute. Sometimes he caught himself in mirrors and the way he looked was all wrong: too mean, too jerk-y, _unlikeable_. He'd replay the way he greeted servers and winced, but it was too late anyway _—_ they'd probably already sniffed the unlikeable-ness in his cologne and simply forced themselves to be polite for the pay-check. No wonder Johnny and Yuta left. It was just a matter of time.

Anyway, he just had to hang on for one more month. Or: four weeks and two days in half, to be exact, until summer ended and Mark could finally dive headfirst into the sinkhole that was the academia and find an excuse to skip his gigs, hopefully get run over by a driver on campus and die a peaceful unplanned death soon, all expenses paid. But the days moved with tepid slowness, caught on brambles. Johnny kept working, only dropping by the apartment to pack more clothes before he was gone; he left before Mark woke. Dust gathered on his bed and desk.

Yuta himself avoided Mark like a repulsed magnet; after their gigs at the Cherry Bomb, he shouldered out the resto-bar before Mark could get a word in, while everyone else followed suit behind him like a Train of Shame; Jaehyun nodded, while Taeil only smiled, muttering a soft, _Take care of yourself, Mark_. And Jungwoo—

“Sorry,” Jungwoo said thickly, gripping the strap of his guitar case as he dodged Mark’s gaze. 

Mark watched them leave each time, something in his chest cracking neatly in two. So _that_ had been the end of Mad Dog; the hidden bridge to Yuta’s world had disappeared, leaving Mark grasping at the air, trapped in the mundane world of the living.

Easily, his gigs whittled down until he was the last person around. Things were much simpler six drinks into the night, with the world dehydrated into alcohol poisoning. Mark dropped his elbows into his stall’s table and sighed. Someone slid a bowl of something steaming across him. The smell hit him first—hearty chicken broth straight from a memory.

The moment he saw the bowl’s contents, Mark straightened and coughed around the knot in his throat. “Auntie—“

“It’s on the house, don’t you worry, sweetheart," Mama Seo said, smiling down at him benignly; she was in her green apron, the striped one with the stain on the corner from when Johnny splashed paint on it at thirteen in their very first house. She only came to visit the kitchen twice a month, and always she was a breath of something sweet, like the gardens of his childhood home. Suddenly Mark was ten years-old again. “You looked like you could use a nice, hot meal. I added extra leeks and potatoes, so eat up, okay?”

It was the same soup she’d made for them as kids, whenever Johnny got a rhinitis attack, or when Mark holed himself up in Johnny’s room with the world’s worst mood. “Th-thank you,” was all he could manage. “Really, auntie. Wow. Seriously, thank you. You shouldn’t have bothered.”

“Enough of that. Warm up, okay? I hope everything’s alright with you,” she said. _And Johnny_ , was the hidden piece of the puzzle. She scratched his chin and Mark tried his damnedest not to shut down immediately. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t going to say anything, but you didn’t seem to be yourself lately. You know Johnny’s always on your side, right? Even if he doesn’t know it himself.”

“I—” Mark bit his lip; he prayed Johnny didn’t tell her about the party, even if he deserved her wrath and more. “I hope so too, ma’am.”

“Well, I’m gonna go back and help with clean up. When you’re done, just leave it out here, okay?”

“No, let me—”

“None of that! Just give me a clean bowl, alright?” She wagged a finger under his nose. “No leftovers.”

Mark hunched over his soup and nodded, smile faint. “Yes, ma'am.”

Mama Seo looked at him carefully one last time. When she had her fill, she ruffled his hair, tapped his cheek, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

As the doors shut, Mark took a careful sip and felt it warm him all the way down. He hoped like hell she wouldn’t go out anytime soon, else she’d see him crying in his homemade jjigae stew, and that would be the absolute point of no return, the real rock bottom, all capitals, FIN. He hoped liked _hell_.   
  


### Sunday, Hongik University Street / 6 PM

The grass this side of Hongdae was always greener, and not even in a metaphorical sense—it was this curious shade of hyper-green, as if tended to with some kind of pungent industrial-grade fertilizer to keep it a pristine emerald. Cautiously, Mark walked into the field next to other buskers, finding a suitable spot to plant his guitar case. It had drizzled earlier, turning the air sweet as it mixed with the scent of baked goods, and the sky up ahead softened into muted watercolors. Lovers looped their arms around each other as they passed, sailing down the street on their own cloud. It was a nice, picturesque place to start, if Mark were to say so himself. Even if it betrayed the way his hands shook.

This was it. This was Mark, fixing it. 

At least—fixing the parts he hoped weren’t yet too unsalvageable, after he’d tripped and smashed the whole thing into smithereens. If there was a _thing_ , in the first place. If anything, the best part about it all—hitting rock bottom, that is—was having a pretty solid foundation to begin.

He popped the lid of his case and carefully took his baby out. Slung the strap over his shoulder. Tuned it; who knew how pretty she could look in the sun?

It was taking a while for passers-by to gather, and his palms were far too sweaty for music. _You’re already dead_ , _remember_ , came the echo of Yuta’s voice, but inexplicably Mark felt hyper-alive right now: his pulse rabbited, his leg jogged up and down, sweat soaking through his collar, and of course, his brain doing what brains did best: working overtime to tell him, in explicit detail, all the spectacular ways he could fuck this up, and still, Mark—

Sang—

### Tuesday, Hongik University Street / 9 PM

Like always, emerging out the other side—the world kept spinning. Lovers continued to float down the street. Bakers baked. The grass didn’t wither into black when Mark opened his mouth.

He was still intact. But something in his skin felt looser.

 _What the heck_ , Mark thought. No one was listening, anyway. At least, no one that really mattered. In his second week into Whatever This Was, he put his clammy fingers to the first chord, his mind’s eye already on page 42 of his journal where he’d scribbled lovelorn passages in secret throughout the year—and began to sing.

When he’d finished, four people he now recognized as regulars along this street began to clap. There was the gardener, two university students, and the owner of the bakeshop right across his spot. For a moment he stood there dumbly, before registering that the reception for _him_ ; his cheeks went hot.

“Thanks,” he croaked, shaking his left hand which had begun to cramp. One student whistled. “Oh, wow.” He scratched his head and bowed. “Uh, thanks. Thanks so much.” 

“Super cool! Was that by Dean, oppa?” she called out. Beside her, her friend shot him a finger heart as she documented the whole thing on Instagram.

“Oh! No, actually, I wrote that,” Mark said.

“Sure, you did,” she snickered. “Your voice is so good? You’re new here, right? I’ll tell my friends there’s a cool new singer around.”

“Oh, what! Thank you!” His voice cracked, so he bent himself in half to hide his mortification. Then, he straightened, coughed, said, “But seriously, though—I wrote it.”

### And They Were Roommates!

Mark didn’t get his name—just that he was a fellow busker that asked him out for drinks, had a nice lean dancer’s body, muscle in all the right places, and built in a way that when their chests brushed Mark could shut his eyes and it was almost like he was with Johnny—not that he had any experience with the real thing, _ahem_ —but he’d transposed the man into all his happy dreams enough times that self-delusion came naturally. So when not-Johnny’s tongue slid into his mouth, Mark’s whole body sang: _at last_.

Didn’t prepare him for the heft, though; the guy with Johnny’s arms backed him against his apartment door the moment Mark jangled the key into the lock, mauled his neck for a solid minute before big insistent hands shoved his knees down on the carpet in a way that got him wondering if he had any vaseline left in store—and see, Mark liked being manhandled as much as the next guy, but when a dick was shoved into his open mouth without so much as a warning, a moan slipped out of him, half-delirious, half-confused, 100% choking. “Wait, haha,” Mark said, pulling away. “Wait—“

“Too fast? Sorry, I thought you liked it rough,” the guy said, holding his big monster cock back like it would attack Mark without warning. Jesus; Mark _did_ say that, didn’t he? Stupid horny lizard brain. He liked sex rough and irreverent and a little bit mean, but if the guy had asked for specifics, Mark wouldn’t know what to say; he had no prior experience with anyone other than Yuta, and now, as the guy—Dongsun, _finally_ he remembered—stuck his sour thumb inside Mark’s mouth, he was starting to realize how good and kind and perfect Yuta had held him. Dongsun pushed him down between the shoulder blades, marvelling at his _fucking microscopic waist, baby, holy shit_ , and stuck a finger up his ass, wiggled it around for a bit, spat into his hole and then he was _inside_ , and Mark’s mouth parted in a silent _O_ at the sudden, near-painful stretch. He pressed his grimace into the pillow, fingers scrabbling against the sheet until he found his voice again. Reaching back to cover himself almost protectively, he began, “Ah—haha—whoa, let’s—changed my mind, sorry—“

“What?”

Mark turned on his back and curled his legs into his chest. “Sorry,” he repeated, averting his eyes. “Can I just—suck you off, or whatever?”

Dongsun shot him a puzzled look as Mark moved to his knees. “Can I come on your face, at least?”

“Not my face,” Mark said, spitting into his palm, then grimaced; this was disgusting, but Yuta always bought the lube—watermelon flavor, his favorite—so now he had to make do. “Just—anywhere, just not my face. Haha. Sorry.”

It was easy to shut his thoughts off after that; his brain was on automatic, swapping between _Johnny-Yuta-Johnny-Yuta-Donghyuck_ (the last came as a surprise). Still, it was a relief to know that Dongsun was decent at the very least, honoring Mark’s request and coming across Mark’s stomach after that soulless handjob with a, _I’m comin’ babe,_ in hot streaks. Then he surged up, pushed Mark into his back and bracketed his hips with his knees so he could loom over him, his beer-breath damp on Mark’s throat. “So good, baby,” he panted, fingers spreading the come over Mark’s chest like he was finger-painting, until Mark stilled his hand, pushed a stilted laugh out his throat: “Whoa, there, _okay_ —“

Dongsun frowned. “Damn, whatever,“ he said, almost childlike. Mark had done nastier stuff with Yuta, but there wasn’t enough money in the world right now to get him hard again. Dongsun tutted down at him. “Was it that bad?”

“No!” Mark grabbed the hand that had begun to palm him. “No, haha. I’m just—tired. Is all. That was nice. Seriously. I mean, really great.”

Dongsun shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He unmounted himself, slid off the bed and pulled up his jeans, then disappeared into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. Dongsun didn't share Yuta's enthusiasm of the whole fucking along to Mark’s curated indie garage Spotify playlist, so now Mark laid in the vacuum of his bed, basking in his disappointment, like watching the credits of an awful sequel he'd waited years to catch. He’d imagined many glorious things about hooking up—none of which happened today. He traced circles into the ceiling until the cum on his chest began to dry, and he gagged, grabbing a T-shirt to wipe it off.

Two minutes later, Dongsun came back, shut the door behind him, and announced, “There’s an angry man in the kitchen.”

Mark looked up from where he’d been shimmying his ankle down his pant leg. “Huh?”

Dongsun looked spooked. “This isn’t like—revenge sex, is it?” he asked. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. You said you weren’t seeing anybody so—“

“I’m not,” Mark interrupted, then the cold wash of realization trickled down his back. He looked back at what was decidedly _not_ his bed—those clean, beige linen sheets that were 100% Johnny’s, 100% smelled like his soap and his expensive Burberry cologne, a gift from Donghyuck—and froze. 

“Why do you look like that.” Dongsun paled. “I don’t want to get beat up.”

“Whaaat, no, dude,” Mark laughed, even as his heart hammered. It seemed like a spectacular decision an hour ago, to get fucked by not-Johnny on real-Johnny’s bed. Now, he would’ve jumped the plank himself. Stupid, _stupid_ lizard brain. Mark pulled a shirt on and managed a brittle smile, pushing past him to greet his guest. “You’ll live, man. You just met my roommate.”

### Siri Play the Jaws Theme Song

Mark stepped out of the bedroom braced for the worst, but the real thing always managed to surprise him. 

“Hey,” Johnny said. Instantly, the whole room was submerged in ice.

He was sitting on the couch, both hands on his lap. He wore a navy cap and a black turtleneck that broadened his shoulders, made the right angles on his jaw stick out almost obscenely. 

“Johnny,” Mark managed; the memory of their last conversation made him cast his stare in the safe spot between Johnny’s eyes, where he had a fighting chance of not breaking down right then and there. There was a half-empty cup of tea on the table too—Mark was sure neither he nor Dongsun made it, and immediately he began calculating the breadth of time required to make it, trying to solve just how long Johnny had sat there, waiting for them to finish. Mark didn’t remember locking the bedroom door. _Johnny’s_ bedroom door. _Fuck_. “Hyung, wh—you’re here. Hey. It’s late—“

“Who’s your friend?” 

“Just… some guy,” Mark finished lamely. He touched his neck. “Uh, when did you get back?’

Johnny ignored him. “He have a name?”

“He’s a busker. And his name’s Dongsun,” Mark expounded. “I met him today. I mean, I’ve seen him around for a while—like on the same street where I perform—yeah, I’m trying out this whole busking thing now, haha, um—but yeah. He's—he’s cool.”

“Right,” Johnny said; his eyes had zeroed in on Mark’s neck, which Mark was positive was now purple from Dongsun’s earlier enthusiasm. “And, um…” here Johnny chuckled, the sound soft and disbelieving. “Why—why were you in my room?”

“I—” Mark opened his mouth, then closed it. “Whoa, was that your room—haha, yo. I didn’t—”

“Ey,” Dongsun interrupted, with pitch perfect timing. He re-appeared in this plane of existence by hanging off Mark’s shoulders and peering curiously under Johnny’s cap; if he took one step out of Mark’s shadow, Mark was sure he wouldn’t be as brazen—right now Johnny’s gaze was a magnifying glass, burning holes into everything that came into its path. “Nice to meet you, not-Mark’s-boyfriend. I gotta say, you had me spooked for a hot minute. Sorry—were we too loud?”

Johnny smiled thinly; Mark wanted to wither and die. “Nah, you’re good.”

“Whoa, wait a second,” Dongsun said. “You’re _famous_ , aren’t you?” He tapped Mark’s shoulder. “Tell me he’s famous.”

This time, the edges of Johnny's signature sunny smile barely lifted. “Nah bud, you got the wrong guy.” He began to stand, looming at his full height. “I’m just the guy who lives here.”

Dongsun wagged his finger. “I don’t buy it. I’d know a pretty face like that!” He winked. “You can tell me, I can keep a secret.”

“I think,” Johnny said, “you should go.”

“Whoa, yeah alright—this crazy toxic energy I’m sensing is off the charts—lemme um, lemme just get my stuff.” He grinned, unaware of the ice cracking under his feet. As he unpeeled himself from Mark’s back and left him standing in the kitchen alone with Johnny, Mark wished there were windows to climb out of. 

“Uh,” Mark said, scratching his ear, then laughed to fill the silence. Johnny didn’t budge.

Dongsun returned, now fully clothed. He slung his backpack on one shoulder, then, before crossing the trench between the kitchen and the door, pinched Mark’s ass and said, “Text me?”

“Uh, maybe not, dude," Mark said, to which Dongsun merely shrugged, and then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him with a finality. 

As Johnny turned to face him, the glacier beneath them shifted. If there was anything Mark hated the most about moving to Korea, it was this: Johnny played the _hyung_ card very rarely, but the times he did always ended ugly. A distance fitted itself between them, by virtue of tradition. Johnny liked to leverage his standing like it was a God-given order—and Mark, stubborn as he was, refused to bend.

Now it was back, like it had always been there. “Look,” Johnny began, pulling off his cap to run his hands through his hair. “I don’t even care that you—that you’re—“ Mark swallowed; _of_ _course_ Johnny wouldn’t, but still Mark felt the all-consuming bite of relief— “but do you even _know_ that guy?”

“His name's _Dongsun_. And I met him busking today, I told you.”

“Right, busking.” Johnny nodded; the smile fit his mouth all wrong. “He do it full-time? Or is he a student like you? Or did you bother to ask him _anything_ at all before you—“ Johnny paused. A breathy laugh escaped him as he looked away for the first time.

“Before I?” Mark said. “You can say it.”

“Before you had sex with him, Mark,” Johnny said eventually, and when he turned to face Mark again his face had smoothed over. “In my bedroom, no less.”

Mark pinched his nose and blew out a ragged, distressed breath. “I didn’t realize we—Jesus, look, I’m really sorry about that. Seriously, I didn’t mean—”

“Can you answer my question?” Johnny said.

“I told you—I met him out busking—”

“Cool, okay. Anything you got besides what I can find on his Twitter bio?”

“Jesus, I—he said he was _clean_ okay?” Mark gritted out, feeling like he was thirteen all over again, Johnny’s high school friends shooing him away, saying, _sorry kid, the adults are talking_. Mark put his hands up. “Wait—why am I even _explaining_ this to you?”

Again, Johnny ignored him. “Did you see his results?”

“I—no—“

“So you fucked a total _stranger,_ in our apartment, on _my_ bed—“

“Yeah, _hyung_ , and I fucked him in the car ride before this, and I can fuck him tomorrow too—I’ll fuck whoever I want!” Mark snapped, ears growing hot.

Slowly, Johnny’s face broke into a raw, ugly grin, all teeth. “Wow,” Johnny said. He slow-clapped as he made his way around the couch; the sound echoed against the kitchen tiles around them. “Mark Lee. Look at you. All grown up.”

“Fuck you,” Mark whispered. He gripped the edge of his own shirt to ground him against the way his own pulse seethed. “Really.”

“Language.” Johnny wagged his finger. “Is this your new philosophy now? Get trashed and fuck strangers.”

“I really don’t want to be having this conversation with you right now.“

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that _before_ you brought your little friend here?”

“Oh, like you ask _me_ before you bring anyone home? Remember Aly? Or Eunhee? Even _Hyuck_ ,” Mark spat. Something foolish inside him opened up, allowing him to side-step the fear crowding his throat. “All those times I got kicked out of my own place, because you _forgot_. Or each time you brought Hyuck home, and I already knew I was gonna have to crash at Yuta-hyung’s place. Did I ever hold that against you?” Mark breached the distance between them. Immediately the air grew taut. “I know you’re thinking you’re so high and mighty and successful now, and you’re my _hyung_ on top of that—but I need you to stop lording that over me. We were never about that anyway. And I’m not—I’m not a fucking kid anymore.”

As he said the words, Mark could pinpoint the moment the fight left Johnny. A new distance yawned between them, stirring to life.

Johnny nodded, like he’d discovered something. “Yeah,” he said eventually; his Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked at Mark, eyes wide and dark. “I guess not.”

When he looked away, Mark felt the ringing loss of it; he watched Johnny touch his jaw, then pull off his cap to rake through his hair again.

“This won’t happen again,” Mark added; the apology was crawling out of him. “I swear. I’ll pay more—“ but Johnny was shaking his head. 

“I’m leaving for Jeju for a shoot. I won’t be home for a few days,” Johnny said quietly. “Anyway, uh. I just came here to pack a few things.”

As Johnny brushed past him, his back hunched, Mark’s eyes trailed after him pleadingly. “I hate this,” Mark blurted. “Hyung—“

But Johnny had already disappeared into the room. The minutes blurred by. When Johnny finally emerged, with a heaping sports bag slung across his back, he stopped by the couch, eyes on the floor until he couldn’t ignore Mark’s existence anymore. Mark wished Johnny would reach for him now, thumb the scar on his head, remind him of the dregs of good he had left. _Tell me I'm good,_ Mark wanted to say. _Tell me anything._

Finally, Johnny turned to face him. Opened his mouth.

Then, he turned and left without another word. The door shut, and everything fell underwater.

### This Way to The Sugar, Part One

Maybe he’d looked down on this whole busking thing after all. The learning curve felt like less pulling teeth with each day, and without a spotlight out here, everything else was allowed to pull into focus. As Mark made music in his own humble patch of green, he could watch the rest of the world rumble and hum along, and crowds, transient as they were, sometimes dropped by to mouth the lyrics, jam along to Mark’s guitar, or sway in place. Easy to pretend he wasn’t alone. That he was less unlikeable than yesterday.

On his third week of discreetly sandwiching his originals in between top 50 covers, he’d gotten one uncle who’d asked him for his Instagram, a group of cool music majors bearing instruments who’d asked if he had an EP they could check out—“Not yet, haha, but soon! Hopefully!”—and then a wide-eyed teenager who’d asked if they could take a picture together ( _what_ ). There was even Yeri and Joy, a young couple he’d befriended who begged him to perform something for them each time they passed—”Anything, really, Mark, we don’t care!”—so Mark did: serenading them with something soft and lilting, and that was nice. Warmed his chest like the helium insides of street lights that buffed the harsh edges of Seoul’s nightlife. This was a modicum of fame Mark had no clue what to do about, so he ignored it. Being hypothetically dead was nice, but being seen—even nicer. Or more terrifying. The Venn diagram was a little complicated. 

As he put away his tip box and clicked his guitar case closed, his phone buzzed. His stomach clenched as he read it.

✉️1 new message - just now

_You free tonight??_

Donghyuck.

He pocketed this phone. Resolute, he walked down the street, determined to have a peaceful night. Peace, and sanity. He stopped by a bakery and bought some breakfast muffins for tomorrow. And then he turned on his heel, took the long way back to pick up some soju too, just in case tonight would be one of those long, uneventful nights that nobody would have to know about, because Mark was good at minimizing the damage he brought upon himself. By the time his hands were full of bags, half an hour had passed, and his phone had buzzed thrice. 

Sighing, he gathered everything in his right hand and dug his phone out.

✉️1 new message - 25 minutes ago

_You, me, dinner!! My treat!!_

✉️1 new message - 11 minutes ago

_Hyung srsly stop ignoring me_

✉️1 new message - 1 minute ago

_like i can literally see you dawg_

Mark froze, full-stop. His head swivelled around until he caught sight of him across the street—Lee Haechan in a black tank, black face mask and bucket hat, black Wrangler jeans—a perfect disguise otherwise, had Mark not known him and his penchant for high top Converses, which were delightfully _pink,_ the exact shade of all Mark’s fretful dreams.

Glued to his spot, Mark watched Donghyuck jog across the street, pointing a finger at him like a knife.

“I knew it! I _knew_ you were ignoring my texts!”

Mark could imagine the pout underneath the mask. “Dude, didn’t mean to! I was working all day.” He paused. “Wait, _how_ did you know I was here?”

“So many questions,” Donghyuck groaned, even if Mark asked only one (1). He grabbed Mark's wrist companionably, and as always, his hand was warm. “Let’s get back to the main issue at hand, shall we? I literally _saw_ you ignore my text. That hurt, hyung. That _really_ hurt. To make up for it, I demand you have dinner with me.”

Mark tugged his hand back. “Uh—“

“Come _on_ , what were your options?” Donghyuck peered into one of Mark’s plastic bags despite Mark’s indignant little _Oi!_ and made a mournful sound in his throat. “Muffins and soju? Oh, _hyung_.”

“I wasn’t gonna have them together—“

“You don’t have to explain. I accept you _and_ your questionable choices.“

“Seriously. And what's that supposed mean?”

"You know exactly what it means."

"Shut up, Hyuck."

“I don’t know why I keep letting you talk to me like that,” Donghyuck complained, but his eyes glittered. “That’s no way to talk to a _celebrity_ ,” he sing-songed in a whisper, and before Mark could prep a counterargument Donghyuck was already pulling him down the street, towards a cluster of restaurants in the distance. Donghyuck continued, “You’re lucky I like you, so I’ll let you off the hook. Look, I’ll even treat you to dinner. See? You’re so lucky you bumped into me tonight. You can even pick the restaurant.”

Mark’s mouth went slack; he was only human after all. Weak-willed, with no adequate human contact in days. And hungry.

He looked up at the restaurant signs, horrified to find he couldn’t recognize any of them. The last time he’d dined in something as elite was during Johnny’s birthday party, and just the thought of it was enough to dull the edge of his hunger.

“Actually,” Mark announced, “I already ate,” just in time to hear his own stomach betray him. There was a pause, and then Donghyuck’s face was breaking into a heart-shaped grin, full of great intentions, all of them sizeably bad. He wiggled his arm into Mark’s elbow, took half of Mark’s bags in his own hand, then pressed himself to his side, which meant detaching was not an option. 

“I mean, I won’t contest that.” Donghyuck was decent enough to pull on a straight face. “But we could always go for dessert?”

Mark sighed; _fine_. If anyone asked, he walked into this sticky, _delicious_ Venus fly trap of his own choice. “Alright, Alright, already! You win.”

  
  


### This Way to the Sugar, Part Two

Mark wrung his hands under the table as Donghyuck recounted their order to the waiter: a hamburg steak, the Soup of the Day, and about five different types of pork cuts Mark didn’t think one was _allowed_ to have all at once. In the end, Mark drew the line at Michelin-starred restaurants, refusing to exploit Donghyuck’s status, even if the vile part of his brain demanded _Do it! His purse can handle it!_

After ten minutes of heated back and forth, he’d ended up in a cozy Samgyupsal place with tinted windows, a kitschy mantelpiece, and one hungry Lee Haechan in disguise for company. 

“Uh,” Mark began, “how’s work?”

Donghyuck waved a hand vaguely. “To be honest, I’m not sure if this is beginner’s stuff or if I’m just fucking up for an extended period of time. I’m still getting used to acting for a stage instead of a camera, but I can’t complain, you know? I asked for this opportunity, so... I’m gonna see it through. You’re watching, right?”

“Yeah,” Mark said vigorously, even if Johnny had the tickets; Donghyuck treated each project like it was his universe. “‘Course, Hyuck.”

Donghyuck regarded him thoughtfully, a smile brimming at the corner of his mouth. “So busking, huh.”

“Yeah, well—haha. Wait, how’d you—”

Between them, Donghyuck’s phone lit up with a call. Mark watched as Donghyuck excused himself, picked it up, and launched into a disgruntled conversation with someone on the other end of the line. “Yes, hyung—yeah I got it. I said I got it! Look, I’m busy with Johnny right now, so—“

Mark’s choked a little on his water.

“—haha, you know it. Have dinner, okay? Okaaaay. See you in two hours!”

Donghyuck hummed as he tucked his phone back, unperturbed. Mark cleared his throat, said, “Did you just—“

“Lie to my manager-hyung? Yes—do I feel sorry about it? Depends,” Donghyuck mused. “Look, he’s a boomer, so he’s a bit of nagger. But I just have to mention Johnny once, and he gets it, right away. It’s like, code for _leave me the fuck alone_.” Donghyuck brandished a peace sign. “Works every time.”

“…Right,” Mark said eventually, refusing to unravel the implications of it. “Wait. You still haven’t told me how you knew where I was.”

Donghyuck exhaled. “You’re not letting this go, are you?” he said, then fished his phone back out, scrolled for a few seconds, then bared his screen to Mark. 

Mark’s face moved with recognition. After a beat, he blurted, “Yo, why do you have a picture of my guitar?”

Donghyuck’s deadpan was glorious.

“What? Wait, is that—” 

There he was, in the portrait—him performing in Hongik University street this afternoon. His eyes were shut, his mouth parted as he sang. Even the pigeon that kept stealing his bills was caught in the picture. He grabbed Donghyuck’s phone, scrolled down to see more. Mark last week. Two weeks ago, when the sky was acid-pink. Familiar faces, too. Dongsun, Joy, Yeri.

Donghyuck stole his phone back seconds before Mark could breach the comments section. “Read the title, dummy. You’re on _Buskers of Hongdae_. My manager follows the page. He says the street is, like, a hotspot for undiscovered talent or something. Then he saw you." Donghyuck shrugged, going for nonchalant, but his eyes gleamed. He nudged Mark’s foot under the table. “You’re not too shabby, Mark Lee.”

Jesus. “You saw?”

“Of course! I’m a fan—“ and suddenly Mark was reaching for his water and downing it very fast. “Whoa. Hyung, you—” Donghyuck laughed. “That does make you _nervous_?”

Mark set his glass down with a dull thud. “A little bit,” he confessed. Around them the chatter continued, oblivious to the way Mark’s fight-or-flight instinct flared. 

“Hyung, you’re great. I mean, why else would people keep anonymously sharing your videos, right?”

“I don’t know. I hope so?” Mark said. “Jesus. It's different when it’s online though. This is _so_ weird.”

Their waiter arrived with their steak. Donghyuck wielded a knife and immediately began to work on the slab. “I’ve seen you perform before. What’s the difference now? I mean, I’m pretty sure you know that once you go out there—it’s pretty much anyone’s game. You’re practically _asking_ to be photographed. Which kind of sucks, but that’s just how it is, you know?”

Mark nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

Donghyuck deposited a juicy slice on Mark’s plate and frowned. “You’re really good, though! I already knew that, but—I’m glad you’re showing off more. Yay to trying to new things!”

Mark scoffed around a bite. “ _Stop_.”

“I swear to god! Listen—my friend Renjun? He runs this digital magazine—kind of like Underdog, but not as Seoul-centric, you know—he’s doing a feature about upcoming musicians. I’m sure he’d love to have you—“

“Wait. Wait, Hyuck, stop,” Mark said, laughing. Slowly, he set his fork down and scratched the corner of his mouth. “Look, I know you want to work your magic on me, and I know you did it for Johnny before—and I’m glad you did, by the way!—but your pity is the last thing I want, right now, sorry. So, thanks. But no thanks.”

Donghyuck’s brow crumpled. “You think I’m… pitying you?”

Mark laughed again, tense. This was uncharted territory. “I mean—yeah? Treating me out to dinner. Offering me a gig. Being nice to me after—well, after I ruined your birthday surprise for Johnny—“

“Whoa, what do you mean _my_ birthday surprise—“ Donghyuck bristled visibly. “Last I heard, that was ours. We were a _team_.” The silverware clanged as Donghyuck set it down on his plate. “And in case you forgot, you got super fucked up that night, hyung, if anything it’s not pity, it’s—“

“Forget it, it’s okay.” Mark waved it off. “Really, I’m not stupid.”

“I think you are, though,” Donghyuck shot back, his eyes growing hard as he fixed his gaze into his plate; a small part of Mark felt grateful Donghyuck was sparing him the full brunt of his annoyance—he’d heard enough stories from Johnny. Donghyuck continued, “I think you’re really being fucking stupid.”

Mark laughed. “Yeah, whatever you say.”

“You know what?” Finally, Donghyuck looked at him. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek. “Let me just come out and say it. You think I don’t see it, don’t you?”

“See what?”

“Johnny-hyung’s party, you avoiding the both of us, just... _never_ being around. The mixtape, god—I could go on—” he listed, but the edge in his voice grew placating by the end of it. “You think I didn’t put it together?”

“Put _what_ together—”

“You,” Donghyuck said, “like my boyfriend.”

Mark’s mouth went dry. His stomach fell into a trench. “No,” he said, adjusting himself on the seat. “What’s—haha—what’s this all about?”

“I know,” Donghyuck said. “That’s why you hate me so much.”

“Wh—I don’t _hate_ you—“

 _A flash_ —white and blinding, before the resounding _click_. Mark flinched, confused, and when he turned around and regained sight, there she was—a girl with the world’s biggest fucking DLSR, two tables over— _why_ they didn't notice that before was a miracle. Her companion, a sour-faced man who was either her boyfriend or her cousin, smiled at them sheepishly as she hunched behind the lens.

“What the fuck?” Mark said, unable to help himself. “Excuse me, uh—hey, at least remove the flash?”

“Sorry!” the man said, hiding his blushing girlfriend away. “My girl got a bit too excited. She’s a big, big fan of Haechan, and—well, haha—actually, could we get—“

“Here you go!” Donghyuck said brightly, all teeth; none of it reached his eyes. He’d scribbled his signature on a napkin and stood up to deliver it, with the kind of fluidity that came with years of practice. “Thanks. But this is a private schedule, I’d be happy if you refrained from taking pictures of me _or_ my companion for the rest of the night.”

Her boyfriend took the napkin and bowed. “Of course, of course.”

“Haechannie, I love you so much!” she cried in a tinny voice, as Donghyuck made his way back. “Enjoy your dinner!”

Donghyuck grinned cloyingly at her as he slid back into his seat. Then he resumed his work on the steak and began cutting it into tiny, unsalvageable pieces. “Anyway. Well?” Donghyuck said. The moment had vanished for Mark, but Donghyuck himself seemed determined to see it through. “Come on, hyung, you can tell me.” He reached for the sauce and drowned his cuts in them. “Am I right, or am I right?”

“What was the Soup of the Day?”

“Changing the subject,” Donghyuck moaned.

“I don’t _hate_ you, okay?” Mark snapped. “Why the stupid questions?”

“Because I like to think we’re friends, but sometimes I’m not so sure,” Donghyuck replied, in his smallest voice. “It’s okay if you did. Just tell me now. Do you hate me? At least once? Ever?”

“Look, let’s not—“

“Because I did,” Donghyuck said, and Mark looked up with wide eyes. “I hated you for about four days and a half. Couldn’t even keep my streak for a week, heh. Not now, though. But I did try. I really did. But Johnny—”

Another flash. White and jarring. Jesus fucking. _Christ_.

For a few seconds Mark couldn’t see. The world and its clutter muted out, save for the apocalyptic pounding of his own heart. When he came to, he caught Donghyuck tucking his face, tonguing the inside of his cheek—a brief ripple of the real annoyance underneath.

“Are you… kidding me,” Mark said under his breath. Now the rest of the diners had begun to murmur, a jumbled static. From his periphery, Mark could count at least three more camera phones raised to steal each second. Turning around in his chair, he said, “Didn’t he just say _cut it out_?”

He didn’t mean to yell, but Mark felt outside his own body now. The stalker fan winced, then hid beneath her huge camera like someone with no sense of spatial awareness at all. Her male companion’s friendly facade crumbled; his chair scraped as he stood up and moseyed over to Mark’s table. “I don’t think I like your tone,” he said. “Don’t talk to my girl like that.”

Mark snorted and mirrored the glare, even as Donghyuck’s hand whipped out to grip his wrist; _down_ , his eyes begged. Mark ignored him. “Well, maybe if she understood basic manners, I wouldn’t have to _watch my tone.”_

“ _Mark_ ,” Donghyuck gritted out. “Sorry,” he said, for the pair—loud enough for the whole establishment to hear. “It’s no problem! What he meant was, if you could kindly refrain from taking pictures—”

“—Actually, what I _meant to_ say,” Mark said, standing up slowly, “was _please stop following him._ This is a _restaurant_ , we came here to eat, not to have that stupid flashlight shoved into our faces every minute, thanks.” The guy was about as tall as Johnny, but nowhere near as impressive; Mark’s whole body thrummed as he was stared down, like he’d inherited Johnny’s own righteous fury himself; his fists twitched like bottled rockets. “Well? You got your autograph, didn’t you? What else do you want? Can we get back to our dinner? _Please_?”

The vein in the man’s jaw looked on the edge of popping. Mark wanted to reach out and finish the job himself.

“He’s kind enough not to ask you to leave,” Mark gritted out. “If I were you, I’d be grateful and apologize.”

The man laughed suddenly—the sound loud and unruly; this close Mark could smell the traces of soju in his breath. “Apologize?” Now he turned to Donghyuck, who was visibly losing his mind across the table. “Who do you think you are? Your friend’s being rude to your fan, and you just sit there? The _hell_?” He turned to Mark and pushed him lightly on both shoulders. “I don’t know what she sees in that _faggy—_ ”

Mark punched him. Later, when asked, Mark would proclaim he didn’t know what possessed him—that in those three whole seconds, his arm wasn’t his. That he’d watched his fist sail into the air, determining the trajectory of its own destiny faster than he could blink.

There was a meaty _crunch_. Donghyuck saying, “Ah, shit.”

The man stumbled back. He cradled his nose, stunned into silence. Instantly, their neighboring table exploded into chaos. _Flash_. Again, the world flayed into stars. Haechan’s stalker fan screamed a scream of no tomorrow—“ _Babe!_ ”—as Donghyuck stole Mark by the elbow, hastily pulling up his mask and hoodie down, chanting, “Shit, shit, are you out of your fucking mind, Mark Lee—go, go!” and pushed them out blindly into night.

### This Way to the Sugar, Part Three

Donghyuck ran like he did this on the daily, like he spent his free time dodging crazy hordes, pivoting around street lamps and ducking into hidden shortcuts Mark never knew existed, yelling, _Parkour, baby_ ; Mark followed him a little clumsily, tripping on his feet like the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, and before he knew it Donghyuck had jumped into the rabbit hole himself by the corner of the street, pushing into its doors like he meant business. Mark had a vague memory of the name before: _Noraebang Star_ ✩, with its tacky neon sign that had a waterfall effect, the last bulb winking out every six seconds. The door chimed, announcing tonight’s intruders. Mark barely had the time to catch his breath and count the peeling SHINee posters on the walls before Donghyuck was marching up the counter and batting his pretty eyes at the lady painting her nails, saying: “One room, please.”

The lady afforded them a brief glance, before returning to the monumental task of coating her pinky. “All the rooms are full, hun. We only have the party room left.”

“Oh! The party room’s perfect,” Donghyuck assured her. “Right, Mark?”

“Uh, sure,” Mark managed; he’d been peering out the tinted glass doors, watching out for the crazy fan and her crazier boyfriend. Turned out they were the least of their troubles; she’d summoned a horde of other nearby stalker fans with their DLSRs swaying from their necks like hunted heads, hungry for revenge. Mark shivered. 

She frowned. “For the two of you? Most people rent the party room for at least ten—“

“Well, we’re not like most people. See, we take this _very_ seriously. We can’t perform otherwise, you know? The magic’s just not gonna happen. We need the, uh, space, so we can _really_ get going—“

“Hyuck,” Mark panicked, “I think they’re on this street too.”

The lady looked alarmed. “Do you have friends coming?”

“No!” the both of them said.

“We were never here,” Mark babbled. “I mean, just if anyone asks. And not like we’re hiding or, or, or anything! So don’t worry, haha. But like, if anyone comes by—“

“What he meant to say,” Donghyuck intervened, somehow wiggling his wallet out in time and slamming his black card down. _That_ got her attention. “Was that we’d _love_ to get the party room, now.” He sweetened his voice, potent enough through the face mask, said, “Please?” 

“Of course,” she said hastily, twisting the cap back on her nail polish. “If you’d just follow me…”

She led them down a narrow hallway lined with pink pulsing neon. The end of it opened into a circular room; in one of those chambers someone was belting out a Blackpink song like they were getting divorced in an hour. The party room in question had a wide U-shaped coach, a flat screen TV in the middle with a 3D character twerking to an invisible song; the assistant pressed a button on the wall and a disco ball revealed itself from a slot on the ceiling, scattering every shade of the rainbow across the walls.

Donghyuck whistled, and before she left called out, “Could we get a bucket of beer please! With ice! Lots of it!”

Mark snorted as he took a seat. “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

“Are you kidding me? My manager’s going to have my head,” Donghyuck moaned. He tore off his face-mask and slumped on the couch beside Mark. “I’m literally living my last moments. How’s the hand?”

“What hand—” and then he winced. It hit him all at once: the dull pain that had rung up his arm had sharpened into four precise points on his knuckles. He touched his wrist, which felt tender. “Ow,” he said intelligently. 

“God, you’re stupid,” Donghyuck groaned. He lifted Mark’s fist and cradled it on his lap until the lady brought them their order, giving them the stink-eye until Donghyuck had no choice but to shut the door in her face. Then he grabbed an ice-cold beer by the neck, stole Mark’s handkerchief from his pocket, and wrapped it against his fist.

“Relax, it’ll stop the swelling,” Donghyuck said when Mark hissed. “Stop squirming!”

“It’s numbing my whole hand!”

“Afraid that’s the whole _point_ , princess.” Donghyuck positioned the bottle over the reddening skin expertly, then made a wrangled sound. “Ah _fuck._ I have a play in less than a month, I can’t make news _again_. My manager’s going to kill me, reanimate my corpse, and _then_ kill me,” he bemoaned. “I hope you’re happy Mark Lee.”

“They barely got a picture, don’t worry,” Mark murmured.

Donghyuck made a hollow, breathy sound. “It’s whatever, Lee. They already think I’m gay—which is, well, they really hit the nail on the head with that one. I’m more scared about losing my manager than my career, to be honest. He’s really nice.” Donghyuck sniffed. “He brings me bread twists when I have a bad day. And I’m gonna give him _so_ much paperwork. Ugh, your wrist is all swollen and _gross.”_ His face crumpled in disgust. _“_ You probably won’t be able to do gigs for a while. God, I’m almost embarrassed for you. Just who taught you how to punch?”

Mark swallowed. After a while, he said, defeated, “Johnny.” 

They both went quiet.

“Of course he did,” Donghyuck muttered. “The guy can't hurt a fly.”

“You’d be surprised. You know,” Mark said, licking his lip, “when we were kids, he, um—haha, he beat someone up. Like, real bad.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Seriously. We had to leave the country.”

Donghyuck’s face lit up. “Holy shit.” 

“Yeah. Should’ve seen the other guy.”

A grin slanted Donghyuck’s mouth. Mark could imagine the image dancing behind his eyelids: perfect, sixteen year-old Johnny Seo, decking someone straight across the face. A Christmas miracle. “Who woulda thunk,” Donghyuck said, almost proud. “Our Johnny.”

The way he said _our_ made Mark’s breath catch. “Yeah,” he said, watching the condensation on the bottle seep into Donghyuck’s lap; it must’ve felt cold, but Donghyuck held Mark’s wrist like he was being paid by the hour. “Yeah,” Mark repeated, then breathed in raggedly, bracing for impact, said, “look, Hyuck, I don’t hate you.”

Donghyuck was reaching for the songbook with one hand. His other kept Mark’s broken fist on his lap. “I know.”

“What?”

“I know,” Donghyuck repeated, looking back into Mark’s wide-eyed gaze; the disco lights made his eyes flash _blue-green-red-pink-purple_. “The eyes don’t lie,” he sing-songed, then looked away, grinning weakly. “I wished you did. It’d make me feel better. You know, for how I felt about you before. I don’t feel it now, though. You’re virtually un-unlikeable.” He made a sound as he parted the book on the couch, as if to say, _c’est la vie_. “Life’s just better when we’re on the same side.”

Mark sought his face. “Are we not?”

Donghyuck stopped flipping. “Not what?”

“On the same side.”

Donghyuck’s eyes didn’t stray from the page. Mark gnawed on his lip. After a minute, Donghyuck said, “You punched a guy for me, so. That counts for something, right?” He frowned down at the song list. “How can you practically gift-wrap your store in SHINee posters but not have a _single_ song out of The Story of Light?”

Mark blurted: “I’m in love with Johnny.”

He said it like the thought made him angry, because it did. It made him furious. That of all the Kryptonite in the world, it had to be this one. Mark braced for it—a learned helplessness on its own, but Donghyuck only laughed a laugh that edged into a sigh. “Yeah,” Donghyuck said, snapping the songbook shut. “ _Fuck_.”

He let his head drop back on the ratty coach, shielding his eyes from the bokeh lights and breathed out.

“I like your boyfriend,” Mark said.

“I kind of heard you the first time.” Donghyuck waved his hand flippantly. “Still fucked.”

Mark wasn’t following. He frowned as Donghyuck replaced the now-lukewarm bottle of beer against Mark’s hand with a fresh one. The old one, he popped open with his teeth and downed half in one go.

Donghyuck wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think we have twenty minutes left before they ask me to swipe my card again. Quick—what’s the song that goes: _ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh_ —?“

“Uhhh…” Mark was nonplussed, but he’d recognized the hook immediately. “Isn’t that Day6? 1 to 10?”

“Yes! You _genius_.” Donghyuck reached for the book again and flipped through it rapidly. “Now please tell me they—fuck _yeah_ , type it for me?” Donghyuck pointed, and Mark reached for the control by his feet with his decent hand. “Okay, you got it? It’s 6781 . . .”

Mark fumbled with the keypad but managed to get it in the end. The TV lit up. Donghyuck deposited Mark’s hand safely back into his own lap while he warmed his throat and stood up, stretching. Even the way Donghyuck sang was completely on-brand; off-key and all, a couple generous vocal runs here and there, for color. When he was through, he slumped back down like he’d exorcised something in his chest and grinned. 

“Um,” Mark began as Donghyuck downed the rest of his beer; the TV mascot onscreen announced: _89%! Not bad!_ “I just said I was in love with your boyfriend. For like, maybe the whole time.” He laughed, high and incredulous. “You—you’re okay with that?”

“Of course not,” Donghyuck shot back. This time his eyes were wide and just a little bit afraid. A breath tangled in Mark’s throat. “I like to think I’m his favorite, but, no matter how you look at it, _I’m_ on the losing end here, Lee. Every single time. I can’t—“ the mic caught some bad resonance and wailed; the both of them winced, until Donghyuck turned it off. Quietly, he continued, “I can’t catch up.”

“To who?“ Mark said. “To _me_?”

“Earth to Mark Lee.” Donghyuck snapped a finger in his face. “That thing you guys have? Ever noticed it? All that history—“ He paused, like something overcame him. When he spoke again his voice had dropped a whole octave: “I can’t compete with that. Get it? I can’t fucking—compete. With you.”

“I don’t want to—“ Mark stammered. “I’m not—I don’t want to _compete_ with you, Hyuck.”

“Yeah, well too bad—you left, and you made him choose,” Donghyuck said, shooting up to his feet to pace the room. “What I have with Johnny… I can’t fuck this up, Mark. It's the first time I’ve had something this good for a long time. I never get something this good. Frankly, I don’t think I ever will.” He studied a curl of peeling paint on the wall and tried to stick it back with his thumb. “I’ve never dated anyone this long, either. I think this is it, you know?” Slowly, he turned around; his eyes crawled up Mark’s face, wide and regretful. “Johnny’s it.”

Mark nodded. If he looked at Donghyuck any longer, he didn’t know what would happen, so he didn’t.

Donghyuck breathed out. “When you’re out there, when you do what I do—people stop thinking of you as a person. You stop owning yourself, really, and that’s okay or whatever—well, _not_ okay, but, I’ve made my peace with it, like a forever ago. But sometimes I want to feel like—someone sees. That I’m still here. Lee Donghyuck.” A pause. “That was Johnny for me. And now, I— don’t know how to go back to before. I _can’t_. But it won’t work—it won’t work without you.”

Mark felt the couch dip. A warm hand slid over his knee. Fingertips touching his; a question.

“Hyuck, I—“

“Do you understand?” Donghyuck said. His other hand ghosted over Mark’s wrecked wrist, about to grip; instead it touched him like a brace. “It won’t work. Please.”

Slowly, Mark nodded again.

“Do you get it, really? I’m kind of begging here.”

Mark shuddered; something inside him was just about to swell. He croaked, “What do you want me to do?”

There was a pause, the question floating between them until a braying laugh came out of Donghyuck. “What do _you_ want to do, Mark Lee?” Donghyuck said, suddenly serious. “Let’s start with that.” He freed Mark’s hand but let his thigh press against Mark’s, warming its side. “Answer your own damn questions. I’m not gonna spell it out for you.”

Mark stuttered out a laugh. He flexed his fingers and winced. “I’ll think about it.” 

“You better!”

They shared a look, the kind just on the edge of something. Mark thought Donghyuck looked like he was about to either break into a laugh or into one big, hideous cry. Without thinking, Mark blurted, “I think we’re both out of our fucking minds.”

Donghyuck’s eyebrows shot up, and then he was laughing. Then he laughed some more. And then he kept at it until it pulled at Mark’s own face, too. The sound of it rang around the party room, drowning the sound of their karaoke neighbors who were summoning the devil himself via trot. It felt miraculous; finally, somebody who’d loved Johnny the same way, after all those years yearning in silence and in hiding, now coming out the woodwork. Call and response.

Mark grinned at him, and Donghyuck kept grinning back; his true mirror. 

“Okay, onto business,” Donghyuck decided, wiping the water from his eyes and shoving the extra mic under Mark’s nose with a wicked glint in his eye, “do this duet with me or I’m _really_ gonna fucking hate you.”

### The Eyes Don't Lie

They ended up capping the night at 19 and a half songs—half because Noraebang Star was closing shop at 12:30 AM and wouldn’t let them finish the damn song, _Touch My Body_ by Sistar. Mark mumbled under his breath, “You’d change your mind if you knew who he was—” and the _he_ in question kicked his shin and jostled his hand, so Mark winced and got the gist. That was when Donghyuck mustered the guts and finally called up his manager, who pulled up the tinted van by a narrow innocuous street and barely said a word when they climbed in (probably because Donghyuck was using Mark as a human shield). The rest of the ride home was spent in a silent stupor.

“You should get that checked out tomorrow,” Donghyuck said beside him. His voice was wrecked.

“Yeah,” Mark replied, stifling a yawn. “Thank—“

“Don’t wear it out,” Donghyuck groaned. Without even a ripple on his face, he paused, said, “So, are you going to tell him?”

Mark looked at him—Donghyuck was a great actor—and kept looking until the absurdity of it all caught up to him. “Jesus.”

“ _Well_?” 

Mark sighed. “Dude, he won’t even talk to me.” He glanced at his fist, at where the swelling used to be, and felt vaguely remorseful how quickly the proof was fading. “I said some pretty awful things to him. Did he—“

“Yeah." Donghyuck looked away. “That was the first time I’ve ever seen him so angry. The first time _period_.” 

Mark shivered. “We talking about his birthday, or—“

“Do you really wanna know?”

“Actually, yeah, don’t tell me.” The van sailed down the highway in a straight line. Hardly anyone else on the road at this ungodly hour, save for them. Outside the window, a climate change ad on the billboard blared: _Time is running out_. “I’m seriously such an asshole.”

There was a laugh, and then Donghyuck was turning to him. “Boo-hoo, who isn’t, honestly,” Donghyuck said. “It’s crazy, isn’t? You fuck up, and people still love you.”

Mark swallowed. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Donghyuck said, very slowly, “that this time, I need you to pull your head out of your ass.”

Mark clenched his fist, trying to remind himself how broken skin felt; already he was forgetting. Outside, the ad flashed again, retribution. Funny how all this time, the ice caps were melting, time not elastic as he thought it was, and here Mark was sitting in the backseat with the love of his love’s life. In the back of his mind, Yuta’s voice was calling him out— _stuuuupid!—_ the comedic echo of his _BA DUM TSS_ ringing like an awful punchline. At least this time he was around to catch it. 

“Well,” Donghyuck began as the van slowed to a stop; it was too dark to read any of the street names, but still he said, “Yes, this is where I actually live, don’t leak my address. I trust you, hyung.” He slid open the car door and slipped out into the cool night. Turning around he called out, “Manager-hyung, get him home safe alright?” to which the driver nodded begrudgingly, shaking his head. “He loves me,” Donghyuck assured Mark, and then just like that blew him a kiss and closed the door. Mark watched him take three steps until he swivelled back and knocked on the window, and when Mark pulled it down, Donghyuck stuck his hand into the gap and pointed, “Shit, almost forgot! Grab that thing under the seat.”

Mark fumbled around for a bit until his hands felt paper. He pulled it out: a Manila envelope.

“Remember our first shoot? Underdog? I asked you for Johnny’s SD card and forgot to return it—oops? Anyway, I had the whole thing developed, but some of the stuff there is yours.” Donghyuck was looking at him now, something unreadable on his face. He pocketed his hands and swayed on his heel. “I told you I don’t pity you, I never have. So... you better do me the same favor, alright?”

Mark frowned. “Why don’t you return it yourself?”

“I _told_ you,” Donghyuck said simply. “It’s not mine.”

He grinned, tapped the door twice until the car began to leave the curb. 

Mark opened the envelope—it was hefty, filled to the brim with photographs, all black and white. Mark remembered that day instantly: the fever dream that was _Lee Haechan_ in the studio, Doyoung losing his shit every five minutes, and then himself, of course, watching the diorama play out like he was an extra on set, averting his eyes each time Johnny and Donghyuck laughed together and clicked with unnatural ease, while Mark squeezed himself into the corner, trying to Houdini himself into non-existence. He replayed the day again and again—there was nothing out of the ordinary—but now his hands shook, because in the envelope was photo after photo of him—munching on a french fry, a stolen moment mid-laugh, him scratching his mole, then sitting in the corner, his eyes wide and a little lost. Each one, him at the center.

Hands, neck, eyes, lips. All his.

Slowly, Mark’s fingers touched his own mouth, where the camera had lingered. He’d never been farther from Johnny’s magnifying-glass eyes, but in this moment, in the backseat of Lee Haechan’s tinted van, he felt its focused gaze, turning his own breath heady; all the way home, he burned and burned and burned and _burned_.

### I May Have Dreamed You Up, Part One

In all his dreaming, it was this memory his subconscious was fond of the most, picking the scene apart and slotting random rows together like a bad Rubik’s cube player. In some versions, Donghyuck fed his mixtape in the player and out poured the sound of weeping. In others, Johnny stopped the car in the middle of an empty backroad and made love to Mark in a star-clotted field. In the most recent ones, Mark jolted awake in the backseat and Johnny would be missing; by the time he slipped into the driver’s seat it was too late—the car was already in free-fall. And the most insidious of them all: Johnny reaching past the handbrake to pull him in by the nape, gifting him with a kiss to heal all wounds, and there was nothing left to forgive. Like Mark had only learned to love yesterday.

In any case, these were the constants in the equation: Johnny, the car, Mark himself, and the planet-sized hurt perched on his shoulder.

If he _really_ thought about it, Mark wasn’t sure which memory was which. If it really came from one at all. His mind could be innovative in moments of weakness—and Mark had plenty of those—but still the voice was an incessant hum in his head, saying, _remember?!_ And of course, Mark did—Mark remembered everything that had to do with Johnny.

This, at least, Mark sure was real: on Johnny’s last day before leaving for college, Mark’s phone pinged with the message:

✉️1 new message - 2 minutes ago

_wanna get ice cream_

✉️1 new message - 1 minute ago

_this is not optional btw. you have no choice_

Bleary-eyed, he pulled on a shirt but kept his pajamas. It was late, even for Johnny’s standards; outside cicadas droned in full chorus. Still, Mark crept down the stairs and out the front door where Johnny’s beat up car was already out waiting by the gate, rumbling softly. The questions surfaced as he climbed inside and saw Johnny’s backpack by his feet, where he’d stuffed the mixtape in earlier; _where did you go_ , Mark wanted to ask, _w_ _here are your dumb friends_ , and most importantly, _did you listen to it?_ But something in Johnny’s face had changed, so he’d kept his mouth shut.

They talked mindlessly for minutes, until an hour had passed and Mark realized too late—

“Hyung,” Mark startled, pressing his face against the window to frown at the side mirror. “I think you took a wrong turn? I’m pretty sure the ice cream place was only twenty minutes away.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, dude! Literally just make a left at the next block and—you totally took the long way!”

“Did I,” Johnny said. There, in his cheek, a secret. “Oops.”

Mark’s memory of the rest of the night was riddled in holes. He remembered the drive being quiet. The night unspooled leisurely. Within minutes he’d dozed off, and when awoke he was swaddled in Johnny’s large jacket. 

“Hey,” Mark mumbled as he stirred awake; beside him, one hand on the wheel, Johnny startled. Mark shot him a grin. “Yo, you’re playing the tape. You… like it?”

A soft chuckle. Like a siren song, Frank was crooning at them gently. A hand dragged Mark’s hoodie over his eyes. “Ice cream in another hour. Go to sleep,” Johnny urged, so Mark did. The tail lights on the highway twinkled softly behind his eyelids; they could’ve been stars.

In the morning, Johnny was gone without saying goodbye. His car wasn't in the garage. Mark didn’t remember having any ice cream, so he’d accepted that his mind had been playing tricks on him again. It was stupid—still, the loss of it trailed him for days; he’d see Johnny again that month—and years later, share an apartment to survive their first foray into adulthood—but right then the absence howled after him, like some lost animal that had been following him all his life, begging to be let in. And what else was there to do? He’d wanted Johnny for so, so long.

### A Sound Is Still A Sound Around No One, Part One

Mark wasn’t a newbie by any stretch, but he was far from Mad Dog’s favorites. So when he called up the place and said he’d be performing as a soloist, the gig manager was a little nonplussed. “Gotta give it to you kid, you’re pretty good. But I can only give you the 8:30 slot. Sorry.”

“No problem,” Mark said, but his heart sank. “He’ll—I mean, 10 PM, same lineup right?”

By _he,_ Mark meant Yuta, and the band by extension, who always played at least second to the last these days, as they deserved. And not just because they were _good_ , but also because they were serially tardy or arrived exactly on the dot after hurrying through several gigs in Seoul for the day. If Mark got the first set, Yuta would never catch it.

He considered the plan in Johnny’s resto-bar, but it just wouldn’t have the same effect. That, and Johnny’s mom would be there tomorrow, which would quickly turn things weird. And Yuta liked a good show, after all. Mark knew all the inner workings of _that_.

(Which was to say that Yuta liked theatrics, liked things when they were done to the hilt. Which also was to say: he’d recognize a risk if he saw one.)

 _If he saw it,_ being the question of the day. “Yup, same lineup,” the gig manager confirmed, and then there was a pause over the line. “What’s up with you, kid? I missed seeing you around the band. The boys said you were busy with uni.”

“Right,” Mark mumbled; classes weren’t starting in a week. “Uni.”

It was possible his misery was palpable through the line, because there was a shuffle of paper, and then the manager coughed and said, “Oh, would you look at that. They’re taking the 9 PM slot tomorrow. Guess I have to tell them to come a bit earlier.”

“Oh! Really—“

“You're still getting the 8:30 PM slot. Be well, kid.” And then he hung up.

The band’s last stop of the day, Mad Dog was the only place left where Mark could show his ugly mug and Yuta wouldn’t run; Mark was banking on that being true. A dirty trick, but Mark was desperate and unlikeable and running out of things to lose. Pushed to the brink, he knew what to do. He’d learned from the best. 

By 8:30 PM he was on the stage, as was the deal, running through his usual covers because he’d spotted a few regulars in the crowd. It had been a good few days since he last stood under these lights, and it gave him whiplash—the good kind. Everything about performing in Hongdae came right out of a picture book, but this? Neon and smoke and tacky outfits on crowds coalescing into a sweaty, affectionate ball—maybe Mad Dog was the real dream. 

But Yuta wasn’t coming. Three minutes before his set was over, none of the band was in sight. Hunched in the corner was the gig manager, making emergency calls left and right for performers in the area. Mark felt his own resolution thin. He reached for his water bottle and drank slowly, stalling. _Fine_ , he thought. _Let’s just get it done._

Someone in the crowd was wearing a crystal earring where the lights kept glancing off; _yo_ _u fuck up,_ the memory instructed. _Do it again._

Mark cleared his throat into the mic. “Yeaaaaah. So. We’re down to my last song, and um, I think this time, I’m gonna do something different. Thanks for being great so far tonight, by the way! Seriously. You’ve probably already noticed, but it’s actually my first time performing on a piano in front of anyone—well, _second_ time, if you count my parents when I was ten for my first Recital.” A few smiles in the crowd. Mark raised his left hand, which was wrapped in gauze. “I, uh—I kind of fucked up my fist so I can’t hold any guitar chords for long. Don’t ask.” This time, the crowd laughed, and it did something to Mark’s chest. Encouraged, he continued, “Anyway! I’m gonna perform an original—” somebody whooped exuberantly, “—oh, wow. Yo, thanks, dude. I mean, I performed it before when I busked on Hongdae. Cool crowd. Nobody really notices your voice cracks. Also, it’s really great place for a quick getaway after you embarrass yourself. They have those nice, roomy, air-conditioned bathrooms with strawberry soap. I can’t run away today, though. I’m kind of boxed in here, literally. So, uh.” Mark smiled a shaky smile into the crowd, running his fingers up the piano uneasily. “Hope you like it—”

Without warning, the door at the back opened, flashing moonlight inside. Mark squinted against the light and his heart seized at the intrusion—there was Jungwoo, Taeil, and Jaehyun, ducking quickly inside with their instruments in tow, panting like they’d just completed a marathon. And then Yuta himself, whose eyes rounded as they found him. 

Everything else fell away instantly. Mark’s throat ran dry.

“Ah—” Mark stepped back, afraid the mic would catch the pounding in his chest. The rest of the band had disappeared into the back room, but Yuta stayed put. His brow furrowed. His mouth opened, then slowly closed, until the line on his forehead smoothed out, and he pressed his lips into a line, not unkind. 

He nodded. 

The breath Mark pulled in fell into knots, but he managed to swallow, wet his lip to continue, “This song’s about, um—time, I guess? And waiting. And showing up as you are, and hoping that—things work out. I wrote it for someone I’ve known since I was, like, a _kid_ , so, I guess you could say—” he shuddered, “—he’s kind of the love of my life? I know, _lame_. Haha. But lately, I’ve been wondering if it was possible to have more than one? Like, if the heart can handle it you know? Like. Different loves, but,” Mark let the sentence hover; in the back Yuta tucked himself against the wall, where the rest of the band were unpacking their tools—not quite watching, but there was a shadow of something in the turn of his mouth, “But both great. Uh. Yeah. Wow—did that make sense? Anyway—I’ll stop rambling now, because I’m bad at saying thank you. Because that’s what I’ve been trying to say. The whole time. So—here goes—"

Both Mark’s hands jerked the moment he placed them on the keys, like they themselves were shocked to be attached to him, to be in this paper-thin moment where he’d allowed himself to be so thoroughly seen. The silence before the first note was back; always a trench. One last breath. And then he began.

“ _I’ve waited many years—_ “ The melody climbed out of him, just the way he intended when writing: each piece a stepping stone. “ _—every print I left upon the track has led me here.”_

Someone in the crowd began to sway their arms in the air. In the front, two lovers leaned their heads on each other, fingers tangling on the stage floor. And there was Yuta, in the back. Yuta, Yuta, Yuta. It was funny how quickly Mark’s hands returned to him. “ _And I know that none of this will matter in the long run,”_ he sang, catching Jaehyun and Taeil’s triumphant grins, then Jungwoo, who blew him several, forgiving kisses, and a laugh flowered into a chord inside him. “ _But_ _while I’m in this body, I want somebody to want, and I want—_ ” He was eighteen again, and then sixteen, and then fourteen, bottled fists composing love songs in vain, and in between that cascading, shifting chaos _—_ major chord, then minor, then major again _—_ that one, constant, unwavering note: “ _—you.”_

He felt buoyant and foolish—enough that he dared to find Yuta in the crowd again. His fingers skipped up and down the scale, accepting his fate, ready for whatever his eyes found, and when he finally did, he grinned and grinned _—_

And Yuta kept grinning back.

### A Sound Is Still A Sound Around No One, Part Two

He was more than happy to be relegated to bag watch duty again as the boys hurried to take his place. But as they passed each other by, Mark sent them sheepish smiles _—_ still hesitant to breach the distance he’d built _—_ and Jungwoo slapped his ass as they brushed shoulders, hissing, “Markie, _what the fuck!_ I’m shitting my pants, that was so good!” and Jaehyun nudged his shoulder, his eyes dimpling, while Taeil did a little joyful shimmy in place.

“Hyung—“ Mark said as Yuta passed him by without a glance. The word broke in half; his voice had finally given up on him.

Two whole seconds. And then Yuta turned. 

Mark fumbled for words, then gave up on them, choosing instead to raise two thumbs up. His whole face warmed. There was a pause, and then Yuta winked, pleased, before skipping over to his drum set to warm up his wrists. 

Mark missed moshing in place. After the set—eight songs of classic rock with a pop twist—Mark shot up quickly to greet them. He offered up a beer. Said, “You guys are always so good.”

“Why are you always so surprised,” Taeil tutted, taking the can. “Anyway! Care to tell me what was _that_ all about—”

He pulled Mark in playfully, honing in at the vulnerable spot by his stomach, but Yuta intercepted, grabbing him by the elbow and announcing, “Borrowing this!” as soon as he shoved his drum sticks into the back of his pants.

“Alive!” Jungwoo yelled as Yuta pulled them out of Mad Dog’s doors. “I want him back _alive_ , Yuta! Do _not_ eat him!”

Mark stutter-stepped as they walked, his mind still on the stage, even as Yuta slowed the pace so Mark wasn’t stumbling over his own feet. He threaded them between bars, where gig-goers stood smoking in small clusters, in the pockets of the street where activity faded. Up ahead the road opened into a well-lit street.

Mark couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hyung, I’m sorry,” Mark blurted.

“For what?” came the first thing Yuta said to him the whole night. He turned to Mark. His eyes glimmered. “Be specific.”

“For everything—“ Mark said. “For being a dick. For letting you clean up my mess. You didn't deserve it. For making you think you were an—an experiment, because you’re not. You’re my best friend too—“

“Okay,” Yuta said suddenly. The shadow was gone from his face. “Okay.”

Mark startled; Yuta’s hand slipped from his wrist to grip his hand, the solid weight of it grounding. Mark repeated dumbly, “Okay?”

“Okay,” Yuta echoed. “I’m hungry.”

Mark let himself be led into the gap of light, towards a cluster of restaurants glowing faintly. “I said I’m sorry for being—“

“I heard you,” Yuta groaned. “And I said, okay. It’s cool.”

Mark dug his feet in and peeled his hand back; Yuta’s steps slowed, until he stopped walking altogether and turned around. Their shadows stretched beneath them. “Is it, really?” Mark said fretfully. “Because it’s important that you know. You’re—“

Yuta’s hand flew to cover his mouth, stopping the overflow. This close, Mark could see the way something fell across Yuta's face, something loose and happy. It felt like forgiveness. “I got it already, Chihiro. You can’t quite live without me, can you?”

Mark smiled slowly into Yuta’s palm; he wouldn’t deny that. As Yuta pulled his hand away, Mark cleared his throat, said, “So, uh. The song. What’d you think?”

Yuta’s face stilled, completely shut in thought. After a careful moment, he said, “It’s… you. You’re singing about you.”

It was impossible to hold it together after that. Mark dove in and almost ran Yuta over, looping his arms around Yuta’s shoulders and barnacling his head into his neck. “Thanks,” he murmured, the sound muffled. “I was singing it for you.”

“Careful, Mark Lee,” Yuta said, breathing deep. “Or I’ll fall for you for _real-_ real.” When he pushed them apart, the sight of his grin sent an arrow into Mark's gut. Yuta tugged him close, dropped a kiss on Mark’s forehead, and then his lips, just because. Mark’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Missed you,” Mark murmured.

“Swear to _god,_ keep saying shit like that, and I'll—hey. Hey! Perform that song for the person you wrote it for, yeah?” Yuta quipped, letting Mark hang off his shoulder like a dead-weight pulled from the sea; he'd been underwater for so long. Yuta pulled him upright, said, “But first—dinner, and you're buying!”

### Everybody Loves An Underdog, Part One

Nothing about Tuesdays were particularly remarkable. Nothing too bad or too good ever came out of them. They were just _alright_. It just so happened that on this particular Tuesday, the world chose to gift Mark three things he could bring up on future family reunions, when the weather talk drifted into dangerous territory, and Mark could whip out one of these bad boys and immediately be the man of the hour. Which also was to say: this Tuesday was _bonkers_ , involving quite a lot, but notably the following:

  1. Mind-blowing makeup friend sex, courtesy of one (1) Nakamoto Yuta; it was extraordinary. Life-altering. Mark himself came two times, and that was even _before_ they even really tried.
  2. A decent un-burnt Korean breakfast, the real thing—with kelp and bean sprouts and everything—courtesy of Mark himself; _the heck, wife me up_ , Yuta said around a mouthful of rice, like he’d gone depraved. Mark’s answering laugh sent food flying everywhere. 
  3. Mark and Donghyuck’s leaked picture, from the restaurant incident, courtesy of Twitter user @ _hheyhaechvn_.



Like a heavy dose of dejavu, Doyoung rang him up thrice until Mark groaned and poked his head out the sheet where he and Yuta had chosen to hibernate for the rest of the day, croaking, “Hyung—?“

“ _Twitter_ ,” Doyoung hissed, his voice squeezing Mark’s cortisol into his bloodstream at eight in the morning. “Mark Lee, you have some explaining to do!”

Blearily, Mark sat up and obeyed; he opened the link Doyoung sent him and immediately wished he'd turned his phone off.

 _@hheyhaechvn_ _tweeted_ :

> _Finally found him! Here’s the guy who hurt my bf while we were out having dinner. we need your help ⚠️ our poor fullsun is hanging out with this abusive wannabe singer named mark lee and we don’t know how he’s treating him in secret 😫 I saw him grab haechannie and drag him into the street.. how much worse can he be when no one’s looking? Please help and RT! #Don’tTouchHaechan_
> 
> _[Attachment.png]_

“Oh,” Mark said. “Shit.”

“ _Yeah!_ _Shit!_ ” Mark winced and put the phone a safe distance away, so his eardrums had a fighting chance. “ _What the hell, Mark?_ ”

“I told you—we ran into some trouble at the restaurant—“

“ _You said you met a stalker fan—I didn’t know you beat him up?_ ”

“Yo, _what_ , I didn’t _beat_ anyone up—hey, that’s an overreaction! And he called Hyuck a—“ Mark dragged in a breath, felt the phantom-prick on his knuckles again. _Compose yourself._ “He was being very _demeaning_. And his girlfriend was obviously a stalker fan, like seriously—talking pictures, with flash? _Inside_ a restaurant? Come on!” And then, in his most quiet voice, added: “Should’ve hit him again.”

“ _Mark_ ,” Doyoung said, as Yuta pushed his surprised face out from the sheet and shot him a finger-heart, crooning, “So punk-rock, Mark Lee.”

“ _Boys_.”

That was Taeyong. “Alright, alright.” Mark pulled at his hair and stared at the ceiling. “What now? What—what do I do?”

“ _Now,_ _he wants our help_ ,” he heard Doyoung say in the background. There was a tussle, until Taeyong was back on the other end of the line, his voice extremely put-upon but still, miraculously, here to give him a chance, “ _Mark, if you ever want a career in anything—anything at all—you gotta take care of this. Sunflowers are great people, you just happened to piss off an extreme case_ —“

“Sunflowers?”

“ _Haechan’s fans_ ,” Taeyong’s voice deadpanned. “ _Well, these guys aren't—_ ”

With perfect timing, Mark’s phone lit up. 

📲 Incoming Call: _Donghyuck_

 _“_ Wait Taeyong-hyung, lemme put you on hold for a sec. Hyuck’s calling.”

“ _Fine_.”

The moment Mark accepted the call, Donghyuck was already fuming: _“—a load of bull! Did you see it? Did. You. See! Gotta say, that’s a bold move, like—is that what my fans think of me? Some fragile little flower who gets pushed around by his own friends?”_

“Abusers, apparently,” he corrected.

“ _I can’t fucking believe it_." Mark could imagine the unhappy twist of his mouth. " _It’s too fucking early for this._ ”

“...Morning, Hyuck.”

“ _Look_ , _I’m still at work now, but I just wanted to call and say don’t worry about it much, hyung. I know what really happened. My lawyers are gonna be reaaaally busy in a few days_ — _anyway, I have to go, my manager’s calling! Don’t read the tweets! Bye!_ ”

Mark stared at his phone as Donghyuck ended the call. Taeyong’s voice returned: “ _Everything good?_ ”

_"Explain good."_

_"Doyoung, down."_

“Yeah, Mark,” Yuta drawled, smoothing his hand up Mark's exposed leg distractedly. “Is anyone going to jail? I do hope so.”

“ _No_ , and, yes—no." Mark paused. “ _Wait_ , I’m confused—“

“ _Focus, please? Listen up, Mark—I need you to stop reading stuff online after this. The itch will be there, but you gotta have to tune it out. You’ll get a lot of traffic in a few hours, and that’s completely normal. Don’t worry. We’ll help you fix this.”_

 _“You have no choice,”_ Doyoung added.

Mark’s heart began to pound. His mind was already ahead, untangling the implications of it. “No, that’s totally unnecessary—“

“ _Mark, look. You’re my friend, and I don’t like seeing people trash your name. More importantly, you’re a good kid, and what’s the use of my journalism degree if we don't at least tell what really happened? We’ll figure something out, then we’ll forward you the brief. It’ll be just one quick little interview—“_

“Hold up, hold up, hold up,” Mark said, nervous laughter bubbling out of him; the words _one quick interview_ thrashed inside him like a bad vodka mix; sensing the change, Yuta sent him a frown, slung his leg over Mark’s lap like a fretful cat. “Hyung, first of all _—_ don’t you guys guest, like, major big deal stars now?”

“ _Sure, but there’s a reason we’re called Underdog, you know?_ ”

And there was nothing to say after that.

A sigh barbed the line. “ _Mark, look. If it makes you feel better, you’re actually doing us a favor. Think about it: it’s good fucking content. We get to feature Lee Haechan, we get traffic, all while we set the record straight_ and _spotlight you and your music into the national conversation. Everybody wins!”_ Taeyong’s voice rung with conviction. " _And I’m not just doing this because you’re my friend, either. We needed more content in the pipeline, anyway. Christ. Johnny’s probably still at it. He's been subtweeting those fans since this morning like an absolute madman_."

Mark’s eyes widened. “He… is?”

“ _Yeah, I told him not to get involved, but all his smarts evaporate when it comes to you and Donghyuck. Not very bright._ ”

Doyoung added, _"But only because the guy has finesse about it. You, on the other hand—do not even_ attempt _to engage, you hear me?"_

Mark’s throat corkscrewed shut; he was thinking of it now: Johnny curled on his phone, folding into his awful slouch so he looked twice as small, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Mark said, “He’s gonna get dragged in this whole mess.”

“ _That’s what I told him._ ”

“He’s so— _stupid_.” Mark slumped back into his pillows, until the contents of Yuta’s phone caught his eye. He stole it from right under his nose, ignoring his “Hey!” and there it was, on Johnny’s own Twitter account, immortalized for everyone and their children to see. Mark scrambled through the tweets, an itch spreading through his fingers; Johnny had been responding to each malicious tweet with a meme and some condescending quip that still managed to sound _nice_. Jesus. Already, some fans were making fun of Johnny’s pictures. Mark said, “No, no, I don’t like this.”

“ _Imagine how tired we are,”_ Doyoung said, as Taeyong's long-suffering sigh sent static galloping through the call, and he was prompted to continue his sermon, “ _You know you’re_ our _favorite underdog, right? We’re always rooting for you. But—Mark, baby—you gotta pick this one up, this time._ ”

Mark laid his forearm over his eyes. “Yeah.”

“ _We’ll send you the brief in a bit_ ,” Doyoung said. “ _Cheer up, okay, Markie?"_

Mark stared at his phone’s wallpaper as the line cut.

“So,” Yuta began, “who’s going to jail?”

### Everybody Loves An Underdog, Part Two

He paced the floor of Yuta’s apartment for about 20 minutes, watched one (1) episode of Chef’s Table, which gave his already fraught mind an excuse to tour the cupboard and muse about the inner workings of a master stock _—_ after which he dove into two sets of ten burpees before he said, _fuck it—_ the self-hatred was really coming in spades today _—_ and he parked his sweaty ass on the couch and opened his Notes app to compose his defeat.

_please don’t get in involved_

No, too forward. Backspace, backspace, backspace. 

_i didn’t break his nose okay_

That sounded exactly like what a person who broke someone else’s nose would say. Mark dragged a hand through his face, stifling a groan. He gnawed on his lip and put his fingers back.

_i’m sorry. i miss you. i hope you’re doing alright._

His resolve was already fraying. Without another thought, he copied the message and sent it in one breath.

Then, he buried the phone with his pillow and stared at it like it was a grenade about to blow. An inhuman sound spilled out of him.

Yuta poked his head around the corner of the wall. “You good?”

“I’m gonna die,” Mark explained, not looking up.

“Cool,” Yuta responded, “you do that.” And then he disappeared.

And then his phone pinged. 

There was an eternal, breathless moment _—_ before Mark dived for it. 

✉️1 new message - just now

Johnny

_i’m doing okay. hope you can say the same thing for yourself_

"Shit," Mark cursed. His fingers flew over the keypad.

_it’s uh being handled…… i guess haha_

Johnny sure wasted no time to reply.

_suure. these kids are crazy._

Mark ached. He was toeing the line; but he needed to know. He typed back: _you dont believe them?_

Two minutes sailed by. And then:

_of course not. if i see ‘abusive’ and ‘mark lee’ in the same sentence again im gonna [redacted] the hell out of their [redacted]_

A laugh was punched out of him. Grinning foolishly, Mark wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and replied: _hahaha noooo they’re kids_

The next messages arrived in quick succession:

_you’re a kid too_

_no i guess you’re not_

Mark blinked before he read the last message again.

_i miss you too_

It was dangerous to hope now, but it bloomed inside him, wild and giddy and insidious. He touched his mouth. Then he put his fingers back to type. 

_i know you’re still in jeju but. can we talk when you get back?_

The next message arrived three hours and twenty minutes later; Yuta was snoring next to him, and Mark himself was already dozing off when his phone lit up, and then after sleep was impossible, merely a concept someone had invented.

✉️1 new message - just now

Johnny

_sure, markie_

### These Friends in High Places

The next anniversary issue was themed: An Ode to the Underdog; Mark was going to guest with other up-and-coming artists in Seoul _—_ poets, playwrights, DJs, to dancers. On the day of the shoot, Doyoung’s first and last message to him was meant to be comforting, but it lodged something real and inescapable inside his lizard brain: _Hope you slept well! just come as you are_

The commute to the studio was a daze—Mark had taken this elevator ride before, walked down the familiar hallway to the makeup room and could count down to the first issue framed as decor on the wall—but there were things about the studio that leapt out at him now, new and a little bit terrifying, now that he wasn’t here as _Johnny’s Roommate,_ that kid who liked to eat the talents' snacks and leech off of the building’s wifi. 

Before he knew it, he was standing in the meet up point. Vinyl record outside the door, just as Doyoung described. He stalled a bit—made brief, very awkward eye contact with another musician he vaguely recognized—until the door swung open and one of the MUAs spotted him, saying, “Well, what are you doing out _there_?” and was whisked inside and into one of the leather seats. 

As she dabbed foundation on his face, Mark pushed a laugh out and said, “Thanks, but I don’t wear—“

“Don’t worry, you’ll forget it’s even there,” she assured him. “Plus, you got a few acne scars here, we gotta cover that up.”

Mark flushed. “I—sorry.”

That seemed to tug a smirk out of her. “For having normal skin?” She smiled, not unkind. “Don't be.” After a pause, her eyes flicked down at him, considering. “So _you’re_ the bad influence huh? Lee Haechan’s little feral friend?”

“Oh, wh _—_ is that what they call me?” he said. “If anyone’s feral, it’s—” he caught himself. “I mean, daaamn, I guess that’s me.”

“Well, I really hope the rumors aren’t true, Mark Lee.”

“What rumors?”

She tilted his chin up, assessing her work. “That you’re a jerk.”

“Well—“ Mark laughed, a stilted sound. “I’m trying not to be anymore.”

She dusted a little blush on the apples of his cheeks and hummed. “You have nice eyes. I’m gonna put some liner on you to highlight them, is that okay?”

“Uh, sure, you’re the expert.” She grinned at him, amused, just as the door swung open and Doyoung entered, eyes bright.

“Mark!” he exclaimed. “You’re late!”

Mark swivelled, nearly stabbing his eye in the process. “Hyung? You said 5 PM!”

“ _—_ is when it starts! _Everyone_ knows you have to be here two hours earlier,” Doyoung moaned. “We missed the golden hour. What do we do with you?” He pinched Mark’s cheek, then backed off as the MUA gave him an earful about ruining her work. “Fine, we’ll just do yours in the box. Shoot first, then the interview. You got the questions ahead, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, well you’re the last person left. Johnny’ll take care of you today—“

“Johnny?” Something in his chest fell from a tall height. “Johnny's... in Jeju.”

Doyoung looked like he was choosing his words very carefully. “He wanted to be there for your first shoot.”

“Wh—” Mark began, giggling nervously until he couldn’t anymore. He wanted to dunk his face in ice, scratch off all the products on his face, and maybe barricade himself in the studio restroom until the day ended. Instead, he said, “Cool. Cool, okay. When did he get back? What about his project? Did he like, sleep at all?”

“So many questions,” Doyoung groaned, stepping back so the MUA could resume her job. “He’s big, alright, but he’s still Underdog’s resident photographer. You’re in good hands, Mark Lee." He put his hands on Mark's neck, like if he didn't Mark would've floated away and disappeared into the sun, because that was what it felt like. "You’re lucky to have friends in high places.”

### The Studio

After an eternity spent trying to psyche himself up, Mark stepped into the box, feeling his soul evaporate out his own pores from sheer anxiety. There was Johnny, his broad back unmistakable as he adjusted the legs of a fresnel light. All of Mark’s available brain power zeroed in on his silhouette immediately, and maybe Johnny felt it, because then he was turning around to smile at him, polite, a camera around his neck. There was a new tattoo on his elbow that Mark was itching to see. He was sporting a new undercut, too. Everything beneath the costume change was still _his Johnny_ , Mark knew, but also inexplicably _not_ , like the air in Jeju had somehow re-arranged his atoms into someone else, Johnny 2.0. Like Mark had imagined him all along.

“Hey,” Johnny greeted. “How you feeling?”

“Great,” Mark lied; he was spiralling at an accelerated rate unseen by the naked eye. Mark touched his neck. “You—I thought you wouldn’t be back in three days.”

“Me too,” Johnny chuckled, then shrugged, like he was extremely put-upon. “Doyoung’s got me wrapped around his finger. Then again,” he looked around the set, clucked his tongue, “guess Underdog’s just home.” 

“Right,” Mark said. “And you’ll—take my pics?”

“That is the plan, yes.” Johnny grinned, but Mark couldn't see it in his eyes. “You nervous?”

“I’m shitting myself.”

Johnny sent him a close-mouthed smile. Mark simmered silently.

“You’ll get used to it,” Johnny assured him. “It’ll take a while, but when you really get going, it’ll just… flow. Like a river.” The edges of his mouth curled. “I don’t blame you though. This is still crazy. What do you know—you’re famous.”

“For _violence_ ,” Mark mumbled. Johnny hid a grin, very badly. 

“Look at you. How’s the fist?”

Mark shook it in the air. “Eh.”

“Who would’ve thought you had it in you, huh?”

“It’s not like I _planned_ on breaking the asshole's nose.”

“And he admits his crime,” Johnny said, then schooled his expression into something more neutral as more staff stepped inside the room. “Alright, so I’m gonna need you to stand over here… yeah, good. Actually, we can start with some sitting poses, it’s easier. Yeah, you can cross your legs. Good. Nothing fancy. Just do what comes naturally. Okay?“ 

Mark’s fingers gripped his knees. He nodded stiffly from the spot Johnny directed him to sit. “Okay.”

As Johnny receded towards the shadows, a rush of panic crept up his throat. This was different from Hongik, or even Mad Dog’s frenetic lights. The studio's white, almost clinical glare stirred in the beginnings of a migraine. Different staff rushed in and out—pulling a loose thread out his sweater, smoothing back his hair, picking out a stray eyelash on his cheek—and Mark wanted to bolt. Mark wished Yuta was here, to hide him away.

“Here you go,” Johnny returned to say, depositing Mark’s guitar on his lap. Mark held onto it like it was lifeline. “The treatment—um, that's like the _theme_ , I guess—for this whole shoot is all about authenticity. Big word, but it all just means _relax_. Nothing too fancy, or too artificial. I need you to let loose. Casual. You can do casual, right?”

Mark nodded. Johnny looked at him a beat too long, so Mark pushed it out: “Yep.”

“Alright,” Johnny said, unsure. “Let’s start?” 

Again, Mark nodded. Johnny looked through the viewfinder and began. Click, click, click. He circled around him, nudging him here and there. After a few pictures, Johnny shook his head, laughing, and said, “Mark, stop holding your guitar like you’re gonna bash someone’s head in.”

“Oh,” Mark startled, “am I?”

“Yeah—just relax.” Johnny demonstrated, shaking his shoulders loose. “Can we try a few shots without the props? Standing now?”

“Uh, sure.” Mark let a runner take his guitar away and looked after it longingly. Immediately, everything else blurred into the background. He pushed himself up to his feet and just stood there. 

Johnny licked his lips. “Um, can you pose?”

“I am.”

Johnny sighed, then walked up to him. His hold was firm as he touched Mark’s skin. Mark let himself be molded—a hand on his neck, the other on his shoulder. Finally, Johnny tilted his chin up, and Mark’s face followed like a flower to the sun. The fingers lingered on his chin, pinpricks of warmth. And then they were gone.

“There you go. Just like that,” Johnny said softly. He brought the camera upward, sharpening the focus, and immediately Mark was hyper-aware of the lens that tracked his every movement. The photos returned to him, and with it, the festering heat. Johnny was saying, “The eyes can’t lie, you know? They’ll know just what kind of person you are after they see . . .”

Johnny trailed off. He set his camera down as he met Mark's gaze without the barrier; something unsayable crossed his face. 

“What’s wrong?” Mark said, after a while, when he’d realized Johnny had stopped taking pictures altogether. Johnny’s eyes flicked to Mark’s hand, gripped loosely around his elbow; belatedly, he realized both his hands were shaking.

Mark pushed them into his pockets.

“Sorry,” Mark said, laughing hollowly, then glanced at the spot between his feet. “Sorry, I’ll—“

“Can we get a minute?” Johnny called out. When Mark’s face whipped up Johnny had brandished a wide, sheepish grin on as he faced the staff and bowed. “It'll be quick. Just me and the talent?” 

A murmur, and slowly everyone began to file out. The door clicked shut.

When Johnny turned back to him, there wasn’t a single trace of anger on his face. “Are you okay?”

Mark nodded, but he felt light-headed.

“Hey,” Johnny said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder, and that single touch made Mark want to shudder apart, like Johnny had tugged on a fraying thread and now there was nothing else to keep him together. “Just breathe. Can you breathe for me?”

“I just,” Mark began. “Johnny, I just wanted to—“

“Later,” Johnny pressed. His hand crept up Mark’s neck, thumbing his cheekbone, before briefly passing by the scar on his head to tuck a stray hair behind Mark’s ear—so gently Mark was going to cry. Johnny smiled at him. ”We'll talk later.”

“Promise?” Mark blurted.

“Yeah,” Johnny said, gruff. “Promise.” He breathed a monumental breath then smiled, kind. “Right now, I need you to trust me, okay? It’s just you and me. Just pretend we’re back in our apartment. It’s a Sunday morning . . . ” and Mark let Johnny’s voice carry him through; it was enough.

### The Interview: A Transcript, Part One

_Interviewer: Wow… okay. Well then. See, we got a call from Lee Haechan too, just a few hours ago, telling us exactly what happened. But hearing it from you really does change everything._

_Mark: [Laughs] Uh, I do hope so. Hyuck—Haechan, I mean—we’ve been texting each other about it, and I think we’re kind of over it now. We, um, we just kind of like, laugh about the memes that have come out of it. Heh._

_Interviewer: Thank you for your honesty. And I’m sure the memes are fantastic, but before we get into that, I just want to say that it must suck to have your first article about you be… well about that, right? So—[claps]—let’s restart this whole thing on a positive note, shall we? How does it feel to be one of the 12 New Artists To Watch?_

_Mark: Oh—wow. Um. Haha. Jeeesus. Well, first of all, I kind of feel bad I’ve never realized people were watching my stuff? Like, I don’t really go online much, ever. The videos and stuff, I saw them like—a month ago? Wow. Yuta—I mean, my friend—he says I’m more digitally inept than his uncle, and he’s like, ancient. When I was a kid, my mom only allowed me to sign up for Facebook after I graduated high school, and even then I had to be super duper secretive about it, like, I had use a different name and stuff because they thought Facebook was an instrument of the devil or whatever—[staff laughing in the background]—yeah, please cut this part out—_

### The Interview: A Transcript, Part Two

_Interviewer: It seems like time and longing are big, big themes in your work. One of your most watched videos are your covers by Mitski and Frank Ocean—_

_Mark: Really?_

_Interviewer: Yeah, I thought you saw the stats? From the songs you choose to cover to the originals you’ve released, those themes are omnipresent. There’s a lot of fear too; your last three originals were all about that, weren’t they?_

_Mark: That’s probably because I’m afraid, like, half the time I’m awake. Haha._

_Interviewer: Sounds fun. And what is Mark Lee afraid of?_

_Mark: Well—[laughs]—many things, I guess. Of fucking up. Of fucking up other people. Of not being able to present my, um, most polished self? I like to be my best for the people that I care about, but sometimes things don’t go as planned._

_Interviewer: Yikes. What then?_

_Mark: You just.... [sighs]. You keep living, I guess? You fuck up, and people still love you. I like to believe that’s true, even for someone like me._

_Interviewer: So are you then?_

_Mark: What?_

_Interviewer: Your most polished self?_

_Mark: [Pause] I don’t think I’ll ever get there, so... I’m just trying to show up. [Laughs]. I’m hoping it’s enough._

### The Interview: A Transcript, Part Three

_Interviewer: So tell us about the song!_

_Mark: The song?_

_Interviewer: Yes. The Song. Someone submitted a recording to Buskers of Hongdae, and it has about 700 thousand likes now. I’ve been reading the comments, and I think it’s safe to say people are kind of in love with it—_

_Mark: Damn…_

_Interviewer: Someone on Pann said it was a love song to end all love songs._

_Mark: …_

_Interviewer: Your face!_

_Mark: I didn’t know it was uploaded. [Nervous laughter] Well, shit._

_Interviewer: I think the piano was a good touch. Really diversified your repertoire there. It feels very… homemade and personal._

_Mark: You can say it sucks, it’s okay._

_Interviewer: Not at all! I think it’s a very special track. Rare to find something like that these days. And you said you wrote it for the love of your life, correct? Just want to confirm what you said in the video._

_Mark: ...yeah, I did, huh? Is this being recorded?_

_Interviewer: Yes it, is. Well? Details please!_

_Mark: Uh—[Coughs]—well, this song—I think I’ve been writing it for about eight years? I’ve written the chorus two years ago, and then the bridge this year. I sort of like—build things up as I go. Sometimes, I get these days where the words just—slot? This year was the year everything just… fell into place._

_Interviewer: The melody is phenomenal._

_Mark: Thank you! Wow. Thanks. I’ve had the melody line for as long as I can remember, I think._

_Interviewer: The chords you’ve chosen are so jarring together. But together, it’s just right. Sounds nostalgic, even._

_Mark: Yeah well—you could say my childhood inspired me._

_Interviewer: Oh, how so?_

_Mark: Uh, well—the song’s about my childhood best friend, so. That may be why. Haha. Is this being recorded? Um—[Laughs]—I think I have to—it’s over, right? I’m just gonna—_

_Interviewer: Mark—is everything—_

### The Three Of Us

Mark bowed and walked out the frame; by the time he’d made it down the hallway _—_ ignoring the concerned faces that blurred into view _—_ and stepped into the elevator, his entire face had gone numb. His own mouth was cotton. He needed to not be here, before this minute trickled into the next.

The elevator chimed; he got out, then crossed the lobby. He didn’t realize how fast he’d been walking until he heard his own name tangled on Johnny’s voice, a few feet away. He started walking faster. He had a five minute head start; he could make it. 

“ _Mark_ ,” Johnny called. 

Mark kept his eyes straight. Johnny had stupidly long legs, an unfair God-given advantage, but Mark was determined. Johnny had probably ran all the way down the stairs to catch up to the elevator. Too bad; Mark was slipping out the building, where the cool night slid across his skin, he just needed to get lost in a crowd—

“Mark, stop or I swear to god, I’m gonna—“ 

“Stop following me!”

“Well, stop _running_.”

Mark ducked under a sign, feeling hopelessness crowd his throat. Johnny’s voice was much closer now.

“Mark—” There was a pained grunt, without warning, then a thud.

Mark’s head swivelled around; he couldn’t help it—the sound of Johnny in pain pulled at the very core of him. When he saw Johnny doubled over on the ground a few feet away, Mark’s breath stuck in his throat. Then he was running towards him, a bubble of panic rising in his chest.

“Hyung—” Mark gasped. “Hey, hey, hey—”

“My _ankle—fuck—_ ”

As Mark reached down, attempting to turn him, hands grabbed his wrists and jerked him down to his knees.

“Got ya,” Johnny said into his space, grin the size of the moon. His grip was iron-heavy. “You actually fell for it. Damn, Mark, haven't you seen the dramas?”

Mark blinked. Feebly, he pulled against his hold. “Let go, please.”

“No,” Johnny said happily, gathering his wrists in one hand, because he could. “First, we’re going to talk. Like I promised.”

“Can we talk when I’m not _restrained_?”

“Then stop trying to run away!”

“I’m not!” Mark cried. He looked up, eyes pleading. “I promise. I won’t run. At least let me do this right… when I’m standing.”

“Yeah, no,” Johnny decided, "You can't fool me, you’re just gonna take off again and _—_ ”

“Look,” Mark said—he'd been trying to quell the dam back for the better part of the year, and now it burst out of him helplessly. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t ever going to tell you—I was gonna keep it together and watch you grow old with somebody else and I would’ve kept it forever and that would’ve been okay. At least, I thought I could bear it. But I’m selfish, and—I’m not ashamed of it. There!” Tears were running down his face, hot and furious. “And it’s okay if you don’t—can we still be friends? I want to be part of your life, hyung, even just a small portion of it—“

“Mark,” Johnny clamped a hand over his mouth. The lamplight above them haloed his hair and turned his face soft. “So you really like me?”

Mark stared at the soft wonder on his face. And then he started laughing. Then he started crying. Blocks of distressed, ugly hysteria. The water fell from his eyes and trickled into Johnny’s palm until Johnny released his face so he could pat his cheeks dry.

“Don’t ask me that,” Mark gasped. “Jesus, don’t you—please don’t ask me that question ever again, or _—_ I don’t know. I’m gonna ruin somebody.”

“ _Well_?”

“Dude, would I be crying in the middle of this _—_ this _stupid_ street otherwise?” Mark shot back. The misery mingled with the ache, until he scrubbed his nose and covered his face in his hands. “You heard it. Everyone did.”

Johnny coughed. Slowly, he pulled Mark up, dusting the dirt from his knees, before his hands lingered on his waist. “Good to know from the source.” Then he grabbed Mark’s wrist and led him towards the side of the building, a shadowed wall with an ATM machine and a few bushes. “Since when?” Johnny asked conversationally as they walked.

“I don’t know,” Mark muttered. “The whole time?” Before he knew it he was backed up against the wall; this close, the sweat on Johnny’s brow from when he’d dashed down the whole staircase shone. Mark asked, “I thought I was obvious. Didn’t you have _any_ idea?”

“Course I did,” Johnny said. “Should I even mention the mixtape? I had a feeling. But after that you pretended it never happened. You said you made Jungwoo one too.”

“Jungwoo?” Mark sniffed, confused. “He’s just a friend.”

“Yeah,” Johnny laughed; it was a little unhinged. “Proves my point exactly. Still, I wanted to think mine was different. But, god _—_ we were both kids, Mark. What did I know? I had no fucking clue.”

“Not me,” Mark said. “I knew.” He stared Johnny down. “I was always sure about you.”

Johnny’s pupils grew focused and dark. His gaze darted away, then back again. Said, “You said you started writing the song about me eight years ago. What about now?”

“S’always you,” Mark confessed, defiant and hopeless at the same time. “I won’t apologize. But I saw the photos you took—the ones of me? And I thought, I don’t know—I was thinking, maybe—but if there’s nothing there for me, if I imagined the whole thing after all—” Mark pulled in a shuddering breath. “Do me a favor and pretend nothing happened? I really don’t want to lose our friendship, hyung. I’ll go crazy.”

Johnny's next breath was loud between them. He bit his lip, looked away until he looked back down at him, and even Mark himself shuddered at all he found there. “You think you’re special? You’re not the only one going crazy here.” Johnny said tightly. “I really like you, Mark. I’ve always been looking at you. I just didn't know if I should've—well,” He paused, swallowed. “You know me. If there even was margin of error—I wasn't sure if—" He kept floundering.

"I think," Mark said, taking pity, "I think I know what you mean." He watched Johnny swallow, then mustered up the last of his courage. "But now you know. There's no margin."

Johnny looked at the hand Mark wrapped around his own. "No margin," he repeated.

"No fucking possibility, bro," Mark said, almost incredulous, and Johnny laughed. "So? What about this time?"

"This time," Johnny said. "I think I know what it means.”

Johnny’s palm cradled his jaw; Mark shut his eyes and leaned into it, imagining his skin cracking open.

“I missed you,” Johnny said, the sound gutted, and that was it, _click_ —now the slow spiral. “I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s okay.”

“Shit,” Mark blurted tearfully. Johnny laughed.

Johnny’s tongue darted out his mouth. “Can I—?” 

Mark reached up on his toes, flung both arms around Johnny’s shoulders and stole the moment for himself. Strange; it felt like he’d kissed Johnny before, so he kept trying again and again, until he got it right. Heat then movement then memory. Johnny’s mouth opened over him, firm and hot, until Mark’s eyes flew wide and he pulled back, gasping, “Hyuck,” eyes wide, and, “Hyung, Hyuck—”

“Knows all about it,” Johnny said simply, dazed, then pulled Mark’s face in again to kiss him on the forehead, then his cheek. Mark looked at him, shattered, until Johnny pinched his nose and laughed. “Talk later. I promise. The three of us.”

 _The three of us._ Mark nodded. “Okay.”

Johnny hadn’t stopped grinning at him. “Hurts,” he said.

Mark looked down worriedly. “Your ankle?” 

Johnny shook his head.

“Here.” He pointed at his chest, and when Mark realized, he pushed him so he staggered back, laughing sharply into the night. “You’re _so_ annoying.”

Johnny drew close to him again, using his own shirt to wipe the snot out of Mark’s face. “There you go, darling," Johnny cooed. “I hate seeing you upset. Sorry for making you cry.”

“You can make it up to me?” Mark said. “Come home tonight.”  
  


### I May Have Dreamed You Up, Part Two

They took an Uber back to their apartment, after Johnny rang Doyoung up and told him he was gonna have to poof, you know how it is. The conversation petered into Johnny’s travels, and Mark let Johnny clean the foundation off his face, sitting in the corner of his bed with a pillow on his lap. Johnny filled the silence happily, like he hadn’t just kissed Mark and turned the narrative on its head just moments ago; and for a moment they’d settled back into their usual dynamic Mark was helplessly afraid he’d imagined the whole thing. Like he'd pressed a button somewhere and now was back in square one.

“You’re so quiet,” Johnny mused. “What’s going on?”

Mark shook his head; any words he’d say now would break the spell, he was sure of it. It felt like it'd been months since Johnny was last here, breathing the same air. Johnny touched his cheek and Mark couldn’t help it; he preened under Johnny’s attention. 

Johnny swiped the cotton over his eyelid. "Missed a spot," he said gruffly, then looked down to admire his work. Mark's skin felt clean and amazing. He was buzzing with a barely-held euphoria he was too afraid to show. Johnny gathered the discoloured cotton from Mark's hand and stood up to dispose it. Then he returned to push Mark’s glasses into his face.

“We should clean up,” Johnny said, then looked at Mark pointedly. Mark coughed, then nodded. Johnny said, “No? Alright, I’ll go ahead.”

Johnny pushed off the bed and made his way to the bathroom. Mark lingered there. The world Johnny had returned to him was the same, but also hedged with something _else_. When he looked up, he realized the bathroom door was ajar. The soft patter of water trickled out the gap. A glaring trap; Johnny never left it open.

He was seized then by a heat, and he stood up, heart thrashing like a stunned bird. The first step inside, the air was cloaked in heat. Mark’s glasses fogged over instantly. Under the warm lights, Johnny’s back greeted him. The wide expanse of it was alien and new. 

Mark sniffed, loudly enough for Johnny to hear. Johnny didn’t budge; the water kept sliding down his neck and shoulders, down the dip of his hips. Slowly, Mark pushed off his glasses, then moved the sliding doors aside. The cuff on his jeans were the first to get soaked. The rest of him darkened along the way. Inside, Johnny’s sharp inhale was like a glass shattering. Mark watched the water drain in rivulets around Johnny's bare feet, which slowly turned.

When Mark looked up, Johnny’s was looking right at him.

“Can you—be quiet for a moment?” Mark said. “I want to do something.”

Johnny nodded. Mark stepped closer, reached his arms around Johnny. Johnny’s arms automatically drew around his waist to press their chests together. Cloth to bare skin.

“Is this okay?” Mark whispered. Johnny tucked his neck against Mark's face, and he felt the slow bob of his throat. 

“Yeah,” Johnny said; his voice was a wreck. “These,” he whispered, hand grazing the edge of Mark's shirt, pushing up. “Off.”

Mark stepped back, his hands shaking as he peeled his shirt, then his jeans. He kicked them to the side, forgotten. The heat of Johnny’s palm was branding as it brushed his waist, helping Mark pull his boxers off. Immediately, his whole body was doused in heat, even as the cool spray ricocheted off their bodies. There was nothing to hide behind now. Johnny's eyes traveled down, further, dark and greedy. 

“Let me feel you?” Mark said. 

“‘Course,” Johnny said gravelly.

They reached for each other at the same time, their hands quiet, tangling, desperate. Mark's fingers scrabbled up the holy expanse of Johnny’s back. Johnny nudged up him up against the tiled wall, and the shock of cool tiles on his skin pulled a gasp out of him like a gunshot. Johnny’s hands felt his stomach, the dip of his spine. Hair, skin, breath. This slow, beating pulse. There were things to discuss, years to unpack and measure, and histories to untangle, but for now—

“Tighter,” Mark said.

Johnny’s arm squeezed around his waist, pressing his lips to his temple, that sweet history that singed all his veins. “Anything.”

“Don’t let me go,” Mark said. His voice wavered. In answer, Johnny’s entire body pressed against him, like two palms in prayer.

“Never,” Johnny said, his hold bruising sweetly. “Never, Markie.”

### The Real Deal

“I love you, Johnny. Like—“ Mark’s throat closed up. He breathed, begged the words to form—they were still unspeakable, even now, but he’d try. Take two: “You’re it. Like, the real deal.“

Without warning Johnny’s big hand was over Mark’s face, muffling the indignant squawk there. When he pulled back, Johnny’s face was pink.

“Nice,” Johnny said, then cleared his throat. He flicked Mark’s nose, even as his own face broke apart with something words would fail to capture. Mark filed the image away and would return to it on many nights. Johnny said, "Me too, Mark. The real deal."  
  


### All Things Grow

Of course Donghyuck’s play would be a success. It was just in the cards. That even just days after talk of the incident, with Underdog's feature just beginning to work its magic—Donghyuck’s inimitable luck would pull through. Didn't matter that it was an indie play too, with barely any budget, written by an up-and-coming bisexual playwright who liked grand space opera narratives with a pop culture twist. Mark was starry-eyed by the end of it, shooting to his feet during the curtain call along with Yuta and the band, Johnny, and Donghyuck’s manager, of course, who got front seats and was bawling into his napkin. 

Donghyuck himself wasn’t faring any better; after pretending like he hadn't been pouring his own soul and more into the play, now he stood under the spotlight, brokenly sobbing, dwarfed by the other cast members who slung their arms around him and kissed his wet cheeks. The guy who played his love interest, his star-crossed alien lover, let him clamber on his back to catch the sunflowers thrown his way. The rapturous applause went on for what seemed like days.

And then the lights went off. People began to file out the theatre.

“Come, on Mark, let’s pick Hyuck up backstage,” Johnny said as the rest of the gang left. There was an afterparty, and Donghyuck had tickets for two plus-ones. “We need to save the staff from from him, ASAP.”

“Right,” Mark laughed, then squeezed Yuta’s hand back when he felt him pat his hand goodbye. “Are you sure you don’t wanna come?”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, then pretended to whisper. “We’ll smuggle you in.”

Yuta shook his head, grinning; his eyes flickered to where Johnny had clipped Mark around the elbow and a slow, knowing grin crept us his face.

“Nah, I’m beat. You two, on the other hand— _behave_ ,” Yuta replied. To Johnny, he said. “You should be thanking me, you know? Markie was no funbefore he met me. Literally, you couldn't bring him anywhere. I taught him everything I know."

“Stop conspiring against me,” Mark moaned, “I’m literally right here.” Yuta laughed, and Johnny began to drag him away from the main auditorium. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Yuta nodded, but the smile was a beat too late. Mark knew, instantly; the Yuta-shaped part of his brain blared in warning. Yuta waved, and Mark kept waving back until a surge of people blocked Yuta from view, and then in the next moment, he was gone.

True to form, Donghyuck was hunched over his co-stars when they found him, cry-laughing with relief. When he saw them at the end of the hallway, he brightened immediately, breaking into a jog and flinging himself blindly into Johnny’s arms. Mark’s ears burned as he kissed Johnny full on the mouth—no press allowed backstage, thank _Jesus_ —and after Johnny spun him around enough times and put him down, Donghyuck kissed Mark on the mouth too, for good measure. Mark said, “Um.”

“Well?” Donghyuck said, pulling a stray piece of confetti out his hair. “Give me praise!”

“The booger in your left nostril is sublime, dear,” Johnny cooed.

“Yeah, take your flowers, it's triggering Johnny's rhinitis,” Mark complained, but deposited the bouquet into his arms with both hands, then said, "Well, I guess you could say... that play kind of changed my life?"

Donghyuck fluttered his eyelids at him. “The way I only have you, Markie!”

“You blew us away, but I won't keep saying it or it's gonna get to your head. You ready?” Johnny said. “I’ll get the car and pick you guys up front.”

“Yes, oh my god, I’m so hungry,” Donghyuck said after burying his face into the bouquet. “Markie, our little wallflower, you’re coming right? I promise it's gonna be PG. Winwin-hyung and Kun-hyung are master chefs, I swear, we're all gonna get food coma tonight."

“Yeah,” Mark said. He scratched his neck, said, “Uh, sorry can I just—I forgot something.” 

Johnny made a face. “Again?” 

“Shut _up_ , I’m not going to the toilet,” Mark groaned, but was already walking backwards, the other way they came. “Meet you in the driveway?”

"Hurry, hyung!"

Mark ran. He weaved his way around press, ducking his face away from the cameras, then climbed two floors until he emerged gasping into the parking lot. The sun was only beginning to set. There, across the asphalt, Yuta was slipping halfway into the driver's seat.

“Wait!” Mark called out.

Yuta's head turned. His eyes widened. Mark had caught the downturn of his mouth just minutes ago; now everything about it was animated. The shape slanted into a grin.

“Mark?” Yuta said. “Why are you here? Where’s your boys?”

Mark’s heart thundered. He didn't get to practice, but now with Yuta around, the fog in his brain cleared, just like that.

"Mark?"

"I'm gonna say something!"

Yuta startled. "Jeez. Go ahead."

Mark stepped closer. “I’m not gonna wait—not gonna make the same mistake—but I want to tell you as early as now that I don’t—I don't want things to change. I mean, well—“ Mark babbled. “I’m not very good at figuring out what I want, but you—“ he stared helplessly into the whirlwind of Yuta’s face, said, “—you’re mine, too, you know?”

There were many other things he wanted to say—better sounding things, more reasonable—but Mark could only hope Yuta caught what he meant where it fell between the blanks. His own face warmed. Gradually, something foolish unfolded Yuta's face, until the sweet secret was out, and he said, "Yeah." He was nodding. “Greedy little bastard. What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know,” Mark said, reaching for Yuta’s hands. “I have no fucking clue—can we figure it out together? Shake the can, see how stuff settles."

"Shake the can, huh?"

"Yeah." Mark grinned, and slowly, Yuta grinned back; call and response. His heart was poking out his chest. "So?"

“So?" Yuta parroted, then twisted his ear. "The hell am I gonna say to that?"

"Yes," Mark said, so Yuta did.

A car beeped, and the moment dispersed; Johnny's car had breached the driveway. The window pulled down, and Johnny's arm pumped the air.

Mark turned to Yuta, and without words, he understood. “Okay," Yuta said.

“So the plan changed,” Donghyuck announced as soon as they clambered into the backseat, snacking on a stick of beef jerky Johnny kept for emergencies like this one. “We’re not going to the afterparty. Doyoung-hyung just called me and said a couple of reporters were already there, and I’m getting hives just thinking about it.” Donghyuck shivered, then looked back at them. His eyes glinted with mischief. “Oh, _hey_ Yuta-hyung. I’ve heard plenty about you.”

“And I you,” Yuta grinned.

“So,” Mark said, quite loudly. “Food trip.”

"Yep." Johnny pulled the car into the main road, smiling wide. "I don't know the sushi place you're talking about Hyuck, pull it up on Maps please?"

“Oh, Johnny, I'm about to change your life. No need, I'll be your navigator,” Donghyuck said, propping his feet up as he began to blab about the sheer artistry and love that came into each individual roll. After a few minutes, he said, "Right turn, over there. I said right. Right— _hyung_!" he cried, then shot a flabbergasted look Johnny's way. "Are you listening?"

"Oh, sorry—got distracted."

"You literally missed the _only_ left turn in miles, hyung," Donghyuck cried, watching the street disappear through the side mirror. "We're gonna have to go the long way."

“Oh _no_ ,” Johnny moaned, then shrugged his shoulders, grinning. “Oops,” and so they went, down the road hedged with light; they had a lot of time.

| thinking about you - frank ocean |  
| francis forever -mitski |   
| edge of desire - john mayer |   
| chicago - sufjian stevens |  
| own it - drake |  
| tonight, tonight - the smashing pumpkins |  
**|** white ferrari - frank ocean |

.

.

.

 _so there's probably a rule about putting two songs from the same artist_  
_in the same playlist, but whatever. i’m already breaking all the rules by making_  
_this mixtape, haha but here goes i guess!!!!! you're turning into a cool college kid_  
_already but when you get the time i hope you listen to this & remember_  
_that someone out there thinks you're the absolute bee's knees  
& forgives you even if you don't return his calls.  
_ _see you in the summer, J  
_

_yours, always_

_M_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more music:
> 
> 1\. mark sings [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N541HLPeG6Y) in Mad Dog to reconcile with Yuta & friends  
> 2\. title deeply inspired from [telltale signs by sobs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKgstZ7xcGc)
> 
> [COOL STUFF]
> 
> First check out the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/451YRAhHkMk1ko1UJAZlED?si=YE4t3ncRQoOxJtiJSHEnYQ) that mash made for Yuta! 😭
> 
> The [fic moodboard](https://twitter.com/johnyumark/status/1284568694019035136?s=20) that mon made <3 
> 
> And this gorgeous [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.ph/lovedvst/tlwh/?invite_code=f67e337091c346fb857b85720c3f6d72&sender=628111616688269392) leni did!
> 
> if you made it all the way here, thanks so much for reading! hoping we all can go back to dancing with our friends in gigs soon 💕 in the meantime, i'd love to hear what you thought! you can also find me on twt [here!](https://twitter.com/prodjohnmark)
> 
> keep safe yall

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! feedback is immensely appreciated <3 as you all probably realized, music plays a big part in this fic; here are some of the tracks that popped up so far:
> 
> 1) [first track in mark's mixtape ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cpiW5MR9F7k)  
> 2) [mark's first big boy gig](https://youtu.be/lOp3wMyzEhc)  
> 3) [the song yumark did the nasty to 🔞](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aywXuljytH0)  
> 4) [another track in mark's forgotten mixtape OOF ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_-cUdmdWgU)  
> 5) [mark lee can't, in fact, Hold It Together](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ekuAO_0tUP0)
> 
> you can find me on twt [here!](https://twitter.com/prodjohnmark)


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